/l^ 



THE 



BOOK OF BALLADS 



EDITED BY 



BON GAULTIEE 

(PEOFESSOK AYTOUN AND THEODOKE MARTIN) 
AND 

FIRMILIAN 

A 

SPASMODIC TRAGEDY 



BY 

T. PERCY JONES 

(WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOUN) 



[itfe 2lIIustrationj5. 



NEW YORK: 
W. J. WIDDLETON. PUBLISHER, 



c\S'V^ 



N. 4, '35 






CONTENTS. 



SpnisI lallalis. 



FACE 

THE BROKEN PITCHER . . . . . . .11 

DON FERNANDO GOMERSALEZ: fkom the Spanish— of Astley's, 14 
THE COURTSHIP OF OUR CID ii5 



THE FIGHT WITH THE SNAPPING TURTLE, OR THE AMERI- 
CAN ST. GEORGE :— 

Fytte First ........ 80 

Fytte Second .....•• 83 

THE LAY OF MR. COLT: 

Streak the First ...... 87 

Streak the Second ...... 89 

THE DEATH OF JABEZ DOLLAR 43 

THE ALABAMA DUEL 47 

PHE AMERICAN'S APOSTROPHE TO BOZ , , . 51 



VI CONTENTS. 

l$Utt\iuntGU$ §allabs. 

PAGB 

THE STUDENT OF JENA 66 

THE LAY OF THE LEVITE 60 

BUESCH GROGGENBUEG 62 

NIGHT AND MOENING 66 

THE BITER BIT . . .^ . . . . 68 

THE CONVICT AND TilE AUSTEALIAN LADY . 71 
THE DOLEFUL LAY OF THE HONOEABLE L O. 

UWINS . . . 7t 

THE KNYGHTE AND THE TAYLZEOUE'S DAUGHTER . 79 

THE MIDNIGHT VISIT 83 

THE LAY OF THE LOVELOEN 87 

MY WIFE'S COUSIN .95 

THE QUEEN IN FEANCE: an ancient Scottish Ballad:— 

Part L 99 

Paet II 104 

THE MASSACEE OF THE MAOPHEESON : feom the Gablio . I(t5 

THE STOCKBEOKEE'S BEIDE 112 

THE LAUREATES' TOUENEY :— 

Fttte the First ....... 115 

Fyttb the Second ....••. 119 

THE EOYAL BANQUET 123 

THE BAED OF EEIN'S LAMENT 127 

THE LAUEEATE 129 

A MIDNIGHT MEDITATION 132 

MONTGOMEEY : a Poem 185 

THE DEATH OF SPACE 188 

LITTLE JOHN AND THE EED FEIAE: a Lat of Sher- 
wood : — 

Fyttb the First ,..*... 141 

Fytte the Second ...... 144 

THE RHYME OF SIE LAUNCELOT BOGLE. • . .150 

THE LAY OF THE LOVEES FEIEND .... 162 

FEANOESCA DA EIMINI 165 

THE CADIS DAUGHTEE : a Legend of the Bosphoeus . . 168 



CONTENTS. 



VI 1 



Miscellaneous ballads (oontinubd) : 
eastern serenade . 
the death of duval . , 
the dirge of the drinker . 
dame fredegonde 
the death of ishmael . 
parr's life pills 
tarquin and the augur 
la mort d'arthur 
jupiter and the indian ale . 
the lay of tife doudney brothers 
paris and helen 
song of the ennuye . 
caroline . . • . . 
to a forget isie not 
the mishap .... 
comfort in affliction 
the invocation 
the husband's petition 



PAGE 
171 

173 
178 
181 
185 
187 
189 
191 
192 
194 
197 



205 

207 



211 
214 



Come, buy my lays, and read tliem if yoa "'\3t; 
My pensive public, if you list not, buy. 
Come, for you know me. I am he who sung 
Of Mister Colt, and I am he who framed 
Of Widdicomb the mild and wond'rous song. 
Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear 
How Wordsworth, battling for the laureatt- 

wreath, 
Bore to the dust the terrible Fitzball ; 
How N. P. Willis, for his country's good, 
In complete steel, all bowie-knived at point, 
Took lodgings in the Snapping Turtle's mouth. 
Come, listen to my lays, and you shall hear 
The mingled music of all modern bards 
Floating aloft in such peculiar strains, 
As strike themselves with envy and amaze ; 
For you "bright-harped" Tennyson shall sing, 
Macaulay chant a more than Koman lay ; 
And Bulwer Lytton, Lytton Bulwer erst, 
Unseen amidst a metaphysic fog. 
Bawl melancholy homage to the man : 
For you once more Montgomery sha .1 rave 
In all his rapt rabidity of rhyme ; 
Nankeen'd Cockaigne shall pipe his puny note, 

And our You/ig England's penny t. umpetbbw 
1* 



SPAIISH BALL/VDS. 



€^t %u\{m f itt|jtr. 



It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well. 

And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannc t tell, 

When by there rode a valiant knight from the town of 

Oviedo — 
Alphonzo Guzman was he hight, the Count of Desparedo. 

" Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden 1 why sitt'st thou by the 

spring? 
Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing ? 
Why gazest thou upon me, with eyes so large and 

wide. 
And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy 
- side?" 

" I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay, 
Because an article like that hath never come my way ; 
And why I gaze upon you, I cannot, cannot tell, 
Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon 
swell. 



\'2 THK BOOK OF BALLADS. 

•' My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is, — 

A shepherd came behind me, and tried to snatch a kiss ^ 

I would not stand his nonsense, so ne'er a word I 

spoke. 
But scored him on the costard, and so the jug >vas 

broke. 

"My uncle, the Alcayde, he waits for me at home, 
And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come. 
J cannot bring him water — tne pitcher is in pieces — 
And so I'm sure to catch it, 'cos he wallops all Ins 



"Oh, maiden, Moorish maiden! wilt thou be ruled 

by me ! 
So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses 

three ; 
And I '11 give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous 

lady. 
To carry home the water to thy uncle, the Alcayde." 

He lighted down from off his steed — he tied him to a 

tree — 
He low id him to the maiden, and took his kioses three : 
"To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a 

.,in !" 
He knelt him at the fountain, and he dipped his helmet in. 

Up rose the Mooi'ish maiden — behind the knight she 

steals, 
And caught Alphoazo Guzman up tightly i y the heels ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



13 



She tipped him in, and held him down beneath the bub- 
bling water, — 

" Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet's 
daughter !" 

A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo ; 
She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo. 
I pray you all in charity, that you will never tell, 
How he Diet the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well. 




1 4 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



Ban .ftrniinin #nmBrMln. 

PROM THE SPANISH OF ASTLEY's. 

Don Fernando Gomersalez ! basely have they borne 

thee down ; 
Paces ten behind thy charger is thy glorious body 

thrown ; 
Fetters have they bound upon thee — iron fetters fast 

and sure ; 
Don Fernando Gomersalez, thou art captive to the Moor ' 

Long within a sable dungeon pined that brave and noble 

knight, 
For the Saracenic warriors well they knew and feared 

his might; 
Long he lay and long he languished on his dripping lied 

of stone, 
Till the cankered iron fetters ate their wav into his bone. 



On the twentieth day of August — 't. was the feast of 

false Mahound — 
Came the Moorish population from the neighboring cities 

round ; 



THE BOOK OF- BALLADS. 15 

There to hold their foul carousal, there to dance and 

there to sing, 
And to pay their yearly homage to Al-Widdicomb, the 

King! • 

First they wheeled their supple coursers, wheeled them 

at their utmost speed, 
Then they galloped by in squadrons, tossing far the light 

jereed ; 
Then around the circus racing, faster than the swallow 

flies. 
Did they spurn the yellow saw-dust in the rapt specta 

tors' eyes. 

Proudly did the Moorish monarch every passing warrior 

greet, 
As he sat enthroned above them, with the lamps beneath 

his feet ; 
" Tell me, thou black-bearded Cadi ! are there any in 

the land. 
That agairrst my janissaries dare one hour in combat 

stand f 



Then the bearded Cadi answered — " Be not wrotn, my 

lord, the King, 
If thy faithful slave shall venture to observe one little 

thing ; 
Valiant, doubtless, are thy warriors, and their beards 

are long and hairy, 
And a thunderbolt in battle is each bristly janissary : 



16 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" But I cannot, O my sovereign, quite forgot that fearful 

day. 
When I saw the Christian army in its terrible array ; 
When they charged across the footlights like a torrent 

down its bed, 
With the red cross floating o'er them, and Fernando at 

their head ! 

" Don Fernando Gomersalez ! matchless chieftain he in 

war, 
Mightier than Don Sticknejo, braver than the Cid 

Bavar ! 
Not a cheek within Grenada, O my King, but wan and 

pale is. 
When they hear the dreaded name of Don Fernando 

Gomersalez !" 

" Thou shalt see thy champion. Cadi ! hither quick the 

captive bring !" 
Thus in wiath and deadly anger spoke Al-Widdicomb, 

the King; 
" Paler than a maiden's forehead is the Christian's hue I 

ween, 
Since a year within the dungeons of Grenada he hath 

been !" 

Then they brought the Gomersalez, and they led the 

warrior in, 
Weak and wasted seemed his body, and his face was 

pale and thin ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 1 

But the ancient fire was burning, unallayed, within his 

eyQ, 
And his step was proud and stately, and his look was 

stern and high. 

Scarcely from tumultuous cheering could the galleried 

crowd refrain. 
For they knew Don Gomersalez and his prowess in the 

plain ; 
But they feared the grizzly despot and his myrmidons 

in steel, 
So their sympathy descended in the fruitage of Seville. 

" Wherefore, monarch, hast thou brought me from the 

dungeon dark and drear, 
Where these limbs of mine have wasted in confinenjent 

for a year '? 
Dost thou lead me forth to torture? — Rack and pincers 

I defy— 
Is it that thy base grotesquos may behold a hero 

die?" 

" Hold thy peace, thou Christian caitiff! and attend to 

what I say : 
Thou art called the sti4,rkest rider of the Spanish curs' 

array — 
If thy courage be undaunted, as they say it was of 

yore. 
Thou may'st yet achieve thy freedom, — yet regain thy 

native shore. 



18 THE BOOK OF Baj'LADS. 

"Courses three within this circus 'gainst my warriors 

shalt thou run, 
Ere yon weltering pasteboard ocean shall receive yon 

muslin sun ; 
Victor — thou shalt have thy freedom ; but if stretched 

upon the plain, 
To thy dai-k and dreary dungeon they shall bear thee 

back again." 

" Give me but the armor, monarch, I have worn in many 

a field. 
Give me but a trusty helmet, give me but my dinted 

shield ; . 
And m.y old steed, Bavieca, swiftest courser in the 

ring, 
And I rather should imagine that I '11 do the business, 

King !" 

Then they carried down the armor from the garret where 

it lay, 
O ! but it was red and rusty, and the plumes were shorn 

away ; 
And they led out Bavieca, from a foul and filthy van. 
For the conqueror had sold him to a Moorish dogs-meal 

man. 

When the steed beheld his master, then he whinned loud 

and free, 
And, in token of subjection, knelt upon each broken 

knee ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 19 

And a tear of walnut largeness to the warrior's eyelids 

rose, 
As he fondly picked a beangtraw from his coughing 

courser's nose. 

" Many a time, O Bavieca, hast thou borne me through 

the fray ! 
Bear me but again as deftly through the listed ring this 

day; 
Or if thou art worn and feeble, as may well have come 

to pass, 
Time it is, my trusty charger, both of us were sent to 

grass !" 

Then he seized his lance, and vaulting in the saddle, sate 
upright, 

Marble seemed the noble courser, iron seemed the 
mailed knight ; 

And a cry of admiration burst from everv Moorish 
lady— 

" Five to four on Don Fernando !" cried the sable- 
bearded Cadi. 

Warriors three from Alcantara burst into the listed space, 
Warriors three, all bred in battle, of the proud Alham 

bra race : 
Trumpets sounded, coursers bounded, and the foremost 

straight went down. 
Tumbling, like a sack of turnips, just before the jeering 

Clown. 



20 IHE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

In the second chieftain galloped, and he bowed him to 

the King, 
And his saddle-girths were tightened by the Master of 

the Ring ; 
Through three blazoned hoops he bounded ere the des 

perate fight began^ — 
Don Fernando 1 bear thee bravely ! — 'tis the Moor Ab 

dorrhoman ! 

Like a double streak of lightning, clashing in the sul- 
phurous sky. 

Met the pair of hostile heroes, and they made the saw- 
dust fly ; 

And the Moslem spear so stiffly smote on Don Fei nan- 
do's mail. 

That he reeled, as if in liquor, back to Bavieca's tail. 

But he caught the mace beside him, and he griped it 
hard and fast, 

And he swung it starkly upwards as the foeman bound- 
ed past ; 

And the deadly stroke descended through the skull and 
through the brain. 

As ye may have seen a poker cleave a cocoa-nut in 
twain. 

Sore astonished was the monarch, and the Moorish war 

riors all. 
Save the third bold chief, who tarried and beheld his 

brethren fall ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 2'' 

And the Clown in haste arising from the footstool where 

he set, 
Notified the first appearance of the famous Acrobat ! 

Never on a single charger rides that stout and stalwarc 

Moor, 
Five beneath his stride so stately bear him o'er the 

trembling floor ; 
Five Arabians, black as midnight — on their necks the 

rein he throws, 
And the outer and the inner feel the pressure of his 

toes. 



Never wore that chieftain armor ; in a knot himself he 

ties. 
With his grizzly head appearing in the centre of his 

thighs. 
Till the petrified spectator asks in paralyzed alarm — 
Where may be the warrior's body, — which is leg, and 

which is arm 1 



"Sound the charge!" the coursers started; with a yell 

and furious vault, 
High in air the Moorish champion cut a wondrous 

somersault ; 
O'er the head of Don Fernando like a tennis-ball he 

sprung, 
Caught him tightly by the girdle, and behind the crup 

per hung. 



22 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Then his dagger Don Fernando plucked from out its 

jewelled sheath, 
And he struck the Moor so fiercely, as he grappled hini 

beneath, 
That the good Damascus weapon sunk within the folds 

of fat, 
And, as dead as Julius Caesar, dropped the Gordian 

Acrobat. 

Meanwhile, fast the sun was sinking, — it had sunk be- 
neath the sea. 

Ere Fernando Gomersalez smote the latter of the three ; 

And Al-Widdicomb, the monarch, pointed with a bitter 
smile, 

To the deeply-darkening canvass — blacker grew it all 
the while. 

" Thou hast slain my warriors, Spaniard ! but thou hast 

not kept thy time ; 
Only two had sunk before thee ere I heard the curfew 

chime ; 
Back thou goest to thy dungeon, and thou may'st be 

wondrous glad. 
That thy head is on thy shoulders for thy worK to-day, 

my lad ! 

"Therefore, all thy boasted valor. Christian dog, of no 

avail is !" 
Dark as midnight grew the brow of Don Ffirnando 

Gomersalez ; — 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 23 

Stiffly sate he in his saddle, grimly looked around the 

ring, 
Laid his lance within the rest, and shook his gauntlet at 

the King. 

" 0, thou foul and faithless traitor ! would st thou play 

me false again *? 
Welcome death and welcome torture, rather than the 

captive's chain ! 
But I give thee warning, caitiff ! Look thou sharply to 

thine eye — 
Unavenged, at least in harness, Gomersalez shall not 

die !" 

Thus he spoke, and Bavieca like an arrow forward flew, 
Right and left the Moorish squadron wheeled to let the 

hero through ; 
Brightly gleamed the light of vengeance — fiercely sped 

the fatal thrust — 
From his throne the Moorish monarch tumbled lifeless 

in the dust. 

Speed thee, speed thee, Bavieca ! speed thee faster than 

the wind ! 
Life and freedom are before thee, deadly foes give chase 

behind ! 
Speed thee up the sloping spring-board ; o'er the bridge 

that spans the seas ; 
Yonder gauzy moon will light thee through the grove of 

canvas trees. 



24 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Close before thee, Pampeluna spreads her painted paste- 
board gate ! 

Speed thee onward, gallant courser, sDeed thee with thy 
knightly freight — 

Victory ! the town receives them ! — Gentle ladies, this 
the tale is, 

Which 1 learned in Astley's Circus, of Eernando Gomer 
salez ! 



THF, BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€lir Cnurtsljip nf nnr (Cii. 

What a pang of sweet emotion 

ThWlled the Master of the Ring, 
When he first beheld the lady, 

Tnrough the stabled portal spring ! 
Midway in his wild grimacing 

Stopped the piebald-visaged Clown '. 
And the thunders of the audience 

Nearly brought the gallery down 

Donna Inez Woolfordinez ! 

Saw ye ever such a maid, 
With the feathers s waling o'er her, 

And her spangled rich brocade ? 
In her fairy hand a horsewhip. 

On her foot a buskin small, 
So she stepped, the stately damsel, 

Through the scarlet grooms and all. 

And she beckoned for her courser, 
And they brought a milk-white mare 

Proud. I ween, was that Arabian 
Such a gentle freight to bear : 



2t5 THE ROOK OF BALLADS- 

And the Masier moved towards ner, 
With a proud and stately walk ; 

And, in reverential homage, 

Rubbed her soles with virgin chalk 

Round she flew, as Flora flying 

Spans the circle of the year ; 
And the youth of London sighing, 

Half forgot the ginger beer — 
Quite forgot the maids beside them ; 

As they surely well might do. 
When she raised two Roman candles, 

Shooting fireballs red and blue ! 

Swifter than the Tartar's arrow, 

Lignter than the lark in flight, 
On the left foot now she bounded, 

Now she stood upon the right. 
Like a beautiful Bacchante, 

Here she soars, and there she kneels. 
While amid her floating tresses. 

Flash two whirling Catherine wheels 

Hark ! the blare of yonder trumpet ! 

See the gates are open wide ! 
Room, there, room for Gomersalez, — 

Gomersaiez in his pride ! 
Rose the shouts of exultation, 

Rose the cat's triumphant call. 
As he bounded, man and courser, 

Over Master, Clown, and all ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 2^ 

Donna Inez Woolfordinez ! 

Why those blushes on thy cheek ? 
Doth thy trembling bosom tell thee, 

He hath come thy love to seek ? 
Fleet thy Arab — but behind thee 

He is rushing like a gale ; 
One foot on his coal black's shoulders, 

And the other on his tail ! 

Onward, onward, panting maiden! 

He is faint and falls — for now. 
By the feet he hangs suspended 

Fi'om his glistening saddle-bow. 
Down are gone both cap and feather, 

Lance and gonfalon are down ! 
Trunks, and cloak, and vest of velvet, 

He has flung them to the Clown. 

Faint and failing ! Up he vaulteth, 

Fresh as when he first began ; 
All in coat of bright vermilion, 

'Quipped as Shaw, the Life-guardsjjnan. 
Right and left his whizzing broadsword. 

Like a sturdy flail, he throws ; 
Cutting out a path unto th'ee 

Through imaginary foes. 

Woolfordinez! speed thee onward! 

He is hai-d upon thy track, — 
Paralyzed is Widdicombez, 

Nor his whip can longer crack ; 



iy* THE BO'DK OF BALLADS. 

He has flung away his broadsword, 
'Tis to clasp thee to his breast. 

Onward ! — see he bares his bosom, 
Tears away his scarlet vest ; 

Leaps from out his nether garments, 

And his leathern stock unties — 
As the flower of London's dustmen, 

Now in swift pursuit he flies. 
Nimbly now he cuts and shuffles, 

O'er the buckle, heel and toe 1 
And with hands deep in his pockets 

Winks to all the throng below ! 

Onward, onward rush the coursers ; 

Woolfordinez, peerless girl. 
O'er the garters lightly bounding 

From her steed wnth airy whirl ! 
Gomersalez, wild with passion. 

Danger — all but her — forgets ; 
Wheresoe'er she flies, pursues her. 

Casting clouds of somersets ! 

Onward, onward rush the coursers ; 

Bright is Gohiersalez' eye ; 
Saints protect thee, Woolfordinez, 

For his triumph, sure, is nigh ! 
Now his courser's flanks he lashes, 

O'er his shoulder flings the rein. 
And his feet aloft he tosses. 

Holding stoutly by the mane! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 29 

Then his feet once more regaining, 

Doffs his jacket, doffs his smalls ; 
And in graceful folds around him 

A bespangled tunic falls. 
Pinions from his heels are bursting, 

His bright locks have pinions o'er them; 
And the public sees with rapture 

Maia's nimble son before them. 

Speed thee, speed thee, Woolfordinez ! 

For a panting god pursues ; 
And the chalk is very nearly 

Rubbed from thy white satin shoes ; 
Every bosom throbs with terror, 

You might hear a pin to drop ; 
All was hushed, save where a starting 

Cork gave out a ca^al pop. 

One smart lash across his courser, 

One tremendous bound and stride. 
And our noble Cid was standing 

By his Woolfordinez' side ! 
With a god's embrace he clasped her, 

Raised her in his manly arms ; 
And the stables' closing barriers 

Hid his valor, and her charms ! 



30 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



AMERICA! BALLADS 



dvljB /igljt initlj \\)t Innpping C'nrtlt 

OR, THE AMERICAN ST. GEORGE. 

FYTTE FIRST. 

Have yon heard of Philip Slingsby, 
Slingsby of the manly chest ; 

How he slew the Snapping Turtle 
In the regions of the West 1 

Every day the huge Cawana 
Lifted up its monstrous jaws ; 

And it swallowed Langton Bennett, 
And digested Rufus Dawes. 

Riled, I ween, was Philip Slingsby, 
Their untimely deaths to hear ; 

For one author owed him money, 
And the other loved him dear. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 31 

" Listen, now, sagacious Tyler, 

Whom the loafers all obey ; 
What reward will Congress give me, 

If 1 take this pest away ?" 

Then sagacious Tyler answered, 

" You're the ring-tailed squealer ! Less 

Than a hundred heavy dollars 
Won't be offered you, I guess ! 

" And a lot of wooden nutmegs 

In the bargain, too, we'll throw — 
Only you just fix the criter — 

Won't you liquor ere you go?" 

Straightway leaped the valiant Slingsby 

Into armor of Seville, 
With a strong Ai-kansas toothpick 

Screwed in every joint of steel. 

" Come thou with me, Cullen Bryant, 

Come with me as squire, I pray ; 
Be the Homer of the battle 

That I go to wage to-day." 

So they went along careering 

With a loud and martial tramp, 
Till they neared the Snapping Turtle 

In the dreary Swindle Swamp. 

But when Slingsby saw the water, 

Somewhat pale, I ween, was he. 
" If I come not back, dear Bryant, 

Tell the tale to Melanie ! 



32 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

"Tell her that I died devoted, 

Victim to a noble task ! 
Ha'n't you got a drop of brandy 

In the bottom of your flasK f 

As he spoke, an alligator 

Swam across the sullen creek ; 

And the two Columbians started 

When they heard the monster shriek : 

For a snout of huge dimensions 
Rose above the waters high. 

And took down the alligator, 
As a trout takes down a fly. 

" 'Tarnal death ! the Snapping Turtle !" 
Thus the squire in terror cried ; 

But the noble Slingsby straightway 
Drew the toothpick from his side. 

" Fare thee well !" he cried, and dashing 
Through the waters, strongly swam : 

Meanwhile Cullen Bryant, watching. 
Breathed a prayer and sucked a dram. 

Sudden from the slimy bottom 
Was the snout again upreared. 

With a snap as loud as thunder, — 
And the Slingsby disappeared. ' 

Like a mighty steam-ship foundering, 
Down the monstrous vision sank ; 

And the ripple, slowly rolling. 

Plashed and played upon the bank. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 35* 

Still and stiller grew the water, 

Hushed the canes within the brake ; 

There was but a kind of coughing 
At the bottom of the lake. 

Bryant wept as loud and deeply 

As a father for a son — 
" He's a finished 'coon, is Slingsby, 

And the brandy's nearly done!" 



FTTTE SECOND. 

In a trance of sickenmg anguish, 
Cold, and stiff, and sore and damp. 

For two days did Bryant linger 
By the dreary Swindle Swamp: 

Always peering at the water, 
Always waiting for the hour^ 

When those monstrous jaws should open 
As he saw them ope before. 

Still in vain ; — the alligators 

Scrambled through the marshy brake. 
And the vampire leeches gaily 

Sucked the garfish in the lake. 

But the Snapping Turtle never 
Rose for food or rose for rest, 

Since he lodged the steel deposit 
In the bottom of his chest. 



^4 THE liOOK OF BALLADS. 

Only always from the bottom 

Violent sounds of coughing rolled, 

Just as if the huge Cawana 
Had a most confounded cold. 

On the bank lay Cull en Bryant, 
As the second moon arose ; 

Gouging on the sloping green sward 
Some imaginary foes. 

When the swamp began to tremble 
And the canes to rustle fast, 

As if some stupendous body 

Through their roots was crushing past. 

And the water boiled and bubbled, 
And in groups of twos and threes, 

Several alligators bounded, 

Smart as squirrels up the trees. 

Then a hideous head was lifted, 
* With such huge distended jaws, 
That they might have held Goliath 
Quite as well as Rufus Dawes. 

Paws of elephantine thickness 
Dragged its body from the bay, 

And it glared at Cullen Bryant 
In a most unpleasant way. 

Then it writhed as if in torture, 
And it staggered to and fro ; 

And its very shell was shaken. 
In the anguish of its throe: 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 85 

And its cough grew loud and louder, 

And its sob more husky thick ; 
For, indeed, it was apparent 

That the beast was very sick. 

Till at last a violent vomit 

Shook its carcass through and through, 
And, as if from out a cannon, 

All in armor Slingsby flew. 

Bent and bloody was the bowie, 

Which he held within his grasp ; 
And he seemed so much exhausted 

That he scarce had strength to gasp — 

" Gouge him, Bryant ! darn ye, gouge him ! 

Gouge him while he's on the shore!" 
And his thumbs were straightway burled 

Where no thumbs had pierced before. 

Right from out their bony sockets, 
Did he scoop the monstrous balls ; 

And, with one convulsive shudder, 
Dead the Snapping Turtle falls ! 



" Post the tin, sagacious Tyler !" 
But the old experienced file, 

Leering first at Clay and Webster, 
Answered, with a quiet smile — 



3fi 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



Since you dragged the 'tarnal crittur 
From the bottom of the ponds, 

Here's the hundred dollars due you. 
All in Pennsylvonian Bonds /" 




' The only Good American Securities. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€jlE Ini[ nf 3i!r. Cnlt. 

[The story of Mr. Colt, of which our Lay contains merely the sequel, 
is this : A New York printer, of the name of Adams, had the effron- 
tery to call upon him one day for the paym'ent of an account, which 
the independent Colt settled by cutting his creditor's head to frag- 
ments with an axe. He then packed his body in a box, sprinkling it 
with salt, and despatched it to a packet, bound for New Orleans. 
Suspicions having been excited, he -was seized, and tried before Judge 
Kent. The trial is, perhaps, the most disgraceful upon the records 
of any country. The ruffian's mistress was produced in court, and 
examined in disgusting detail, as to her connexion with Colt, and his 
movements during the days and nights succeeding the murder. The 
head of the murdered man was bandied to and fro in the court, hand- 
ed lip to the jury, and commented on by witnesses and counsel ; and 
to crown the horrors of the whole proceeding, the wretch's own 
counsel, a Mr. Emmet, commencing the defence with a cool admis- 
sion that his client took the life of Adams, and following it up by a 
detail of the whole circumstances of this most brutal murder in the 
first person, as though he himself had been the murderer, ended by 
telling the jury, that his client was ^'■entitled to tJie sympatJiy of a jury 
of his country," as " a young man just entering into life, ivJiose pros- 
pects^ prolahly have been permanently hlastedy Colt was found guilty , 
but a variety of exceptions were taken to the charge by the judge, 
and after a long series of appeals, which occupied more than a year 
from the date of the conviction^ the sentence of death was ratified by 
Governor Seward. The rest of Colt's story is told in our ballad.] 

STREAK THE FIRST. 
* -St * * 

And now the sacred rite was done, and the marriage 

knot was tied, 
And Colt withdrew his blushing wife a little way aside ; 



38 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Let 's go," he said, " into my cell, let 's go alone, my 

dear ; 
I fain would shelter that sweet face from the sheriff's 

odious leer. 
The gaoler and the hangman, they are waiting both for 

me, — 
[ cannot bear to see them wink so knowingly at thee ! 
Oh, how I loved thee, dearest ! They say that I am 

wild, 
That a mother dares not trust me with the weasand of 

her child, 
They say my bowie knife is keen to sliver into halves 
The carcass of my enemy, as butchers slay their calves. 
They say that I am stern of mood, because, like salted 

beef, 
I packed my quartered foreman up, and marked him 

' prime tariff ;' 
Because I thought to palm him on the simple-souled John 

Bull, 
And clear a small per centage on the sale at Liverpool ; 
It may be so, I do not know — these things, perhaps, may 

be ; 
But surely I have always been a gentleman to thee ! 
Then come, my love, into my cell, short bridal space is 

ours, — 
Nay, sheriff, never look thy watch — I guess there's good 

two hours. 
We '11 shut the prison doors and keep the gaping world 

at bay. 
For love is long as 'tarnity, though I must die to-day 1" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. ,T) 

STREAK THE SECOND. 

The clock is ticking onward, 

It nears the hour of doom, 

And no one yet hath entered 

Into that ghastly room. 
The gaoler and the sheriff 

They are walking to and fro ; 
And the hangman sits upon the steps, 

And smokes his pipe below. 
In grisly expectation 

The prison all is bound, 
And save expectoration. 

You cannot hear a sound. 
The turnkey stands and ponders, 

His hand upon the bolt, — 
" In twenty minutes more, I guess, 

'T will all be up with Colt !" . 
dut see, the door is opened ! 

Forth comes the weeping bride ; 
The courteous sheriff lifls his hat, 

And saunters to her side, — 
"1 beg your pardon, Mrs. C, 

But is your husband ready ?" 
' I guess you'd better ask himself," 
Replied the woful lady. 

The clock is ticking onward, 

The minutes almost run, 
The hangman's pipe is nearly out, 

'T is on the stroke of one. 



40 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

At every grated window 

Unshaven faces glare ; 
There's Puke, the judge of Tennessee, 

And Lynch, of Delaware ; 
And Batter, with the long black beard, 

Whom Hartford's maids know well ; 
And Winkinson, from Fish Kill Reach, 

The pride of New Rochelle ; 
Elkanah Nutts, from. Tarry Town, 

The gallant gouging boy ; 
And coon-faced Bushwhack, from the hills 

That frown o'er modern Troy ; 
Young Wheezer, whom our Willis loves. 

Because, 't is said, that he, 
One morning from a bookstall filched 

The tale of " Melanie ;" 
And Skunk, who fought his country's fight 

Beneath the stripes and stars, — 
All thronging at the w^indows stood, 

And gazed between the bars. 

The little boys that stood behind 

(Young thievish imps were they !) 
Displayed considerable nous 

On that eventful day ; 
For bits of broken looking-glass 

They held aslant on high, 
And there a mirrored gallows-tree 

Met their delighted eye.^' 

*A Fact. 



THE BOOR OF BALLADS. 41 

The clock is ticking onward ; 

Hark ! Hark ! it striketh one ! 
Each felon draws a whistling breath, 

" Time 's up with Colt ; he 's done !" 

The sheriff looks his watch again, 

Then puts it in his fob, 
And turns him to the hangman, — 

" Get ready for the job." 
The gaoler knocketh loudly, , 

The turnkey draws the bolt. 
And pleasantly the sheriff says, 

" We 're waiting, Mister Colt !" 

No answer ? No ! no answer ! 

All 's still as death within; 
The sheriff eyes the gaoler, 

The gaoler strokes his chin. 
" I should n't wonder, Nahum, if 

It were as you suppose." 
The hangman looked unhappy, and 

The turnkey blew his nose. 

They entered. On his pallet 

The noble convict lay, — 
The bridegroom on his marriage bed, 

But not in trim array. 
His red right hand a razor held. 

Fresh sharpened from the hone. 
And his ivory neck was severed, 

And gashed into the bone. 



42 THE book: of ballads. 



And when the lamp is lighted 

In the long November days, 
And lads and lasses mingle 

At the shucking of the maize ; 
When pies of smoking pumpkin 

Upon the table stand, 
And bowls of black molasses 

Go round from hand to hand ; 
When slap-jacks, maple-sugared, 

Are hissing in the pan, 
And cider, with a dash of gin, 

Foams in the social can ; 
When the good man wets his whistle. 

And the good wife scolds the child ; 
And the girls exclaim convulsively, 

" Have done, or I'll be riled 1" 
When the loafer sitting next them 

Attempts a sly caress, 
And whispers, " Oh ! you 'possum, 

You 've fixed my heart, I guess !'* 
With laughter and with weeping, 

Then shall they tell the tale, 
How Colt his foreman quartered. 

And died within the gaol. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 4o 



€^ Brntlj (Df Mr| Bnllnr. 

[Before the following poem, which originally appeared in " Fraser'a 
Magazine," could have reached America, intelligence was received in 
"-his country of an affray in Congress, very nearly the counterpart of 
-hat which the Author has here imagined in jest. It was very clear, 
to any one who observed the state of public manners in America, 
that such occurrences must happen sooner or later. The Americans 
apparently felt the force of the satire, as the poem was widely re- 
printed throughout the States. It subsequently returned to this 
country, embodied in an American work on American manners, 
where it characteristically appeared as the writer's own production ; 
and it afterwards went the round of British newspapers, as an amu- 
sing satire by an American, of his countrymen's foibles I] 

The Congress met, the day was wet, Van Buren took 

the chair, 
On either side, the statesman pride of fair Kentuck was 

there. 
With moody frown, there sat Calhoun, and slowly in 

his cheek 
His quid he thrust, and slaked the dust, as Webster 

rose to speak. 

Upon that day, near gifted Clay, a youthful member sat, 
And like a free American upon the floor he spat ; 
Then turning round to Clay, he said, and %viped his 

manly chin, 
•" What kind of Locofoco's that, as wears the painter's 

«kin ? " 



44 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, 

" Young man," quoth Clay, " avoid the way of Slick 

of Tennessee, 
Of gougers fierce, the eyes that pierce, the fiercest 

gouger he. 
He chews and spits as there he sits, and whittles at the 

chairs, 
And in his hand, for deadly strife, a bowie-knife he 

bears. 

" Avoid that knife ! In frequent strife its blade, so long 

and thin, 
Has found itself a resting-place his rival's ribs within." 
But coward fear came never near young Jabez Dollar's 

heart, 
" Were he an alligator, I would rile him pretty 

smart !" 

Then up he rose, and cleared his nose, and looked toward 

the chair. 
He saw the stately stripes and stars — our country's flag 

was there! 
His heart beat high, with savage cry upon the floor he 

sprang, 
Then raised his wrist, and shook his fist, and spoke his 

first harangue. 

" Who sold the nutmegs made of wood — the clocks that 
wouldn't figure 1 

Who grinned the bark ofl* gum-trees dark, — the ever- 
lasting nigger ? 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 45 

For twenty cents, ye Congress gents, through 'tarnity 

I'll kick 
That man, I guess, though nothing less than coon-faced 

Colonel Slick ! " 



The colonel smiled— with frenzy wild,— his very beard 

waxed blue, — 
His shirt it could not hold him, so wrathy riled he 

grew; 

He foams and frets, his knife he whets upon his seat 

below — 
He sharpens it on either side, and whittles at his toe,— 

" Oh ! waken, snakes, and walk your chalks ! " he cried, 

with ire elate ; 
" Darn my old mother, but I will in wild cats whip my 

weight ! 
Oh ! 'tarnal death I'll spoil your breath, young Dollar, 

and your chaffing, — 
Look to your ribs, for here is that will tickle them with- 

out laughing ! " 



His knife he raised— with fury crazed, he sprang across 

the hall ; 
He cut a caper in the air— he stood before them all : 
He never stopped to look or think if he the deed should 

do, 

But spinning sent the President, and on yoimg Dollai 
flew. 



4G THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

They met — they closed — they sunk — they rose, — in vain 

young Dollar strove — 
For, like a streak of lightning greased, the infuriate 

colonel drove 
His bowie blade deep in his side, and to the ground 

they rolled, 
And, drenched in gore, wheeled o'er and o'er, locked in 

other's hold. 



With fury dumb — with nail and thumb — they struggled 

and they thrust, — 
The blood ran red from Dollar's side, like rain, upon 

the dust; 
He nerved his might for one last spring, and as he sunk 

and died, 
Reft of an eye, his enemy fell groaning at his side. 

Thus did he fall within the hall of Congress, that brave 

youth ; 
The bowie-knife had quenched his life of valor and of 

truth ; 
And still among the statesmen throng at Washington 

they tell 
How nobly Dollar gouged his man — how gallantly he 

fell ! 



TUB BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€liB fllaliama Barl. 

" Young chaps, give ear, — the case is clear. You, Silas 

Fixings, you 
Pay Mister Nehemiah Dodge, them dollars as you 're 

due, 
You are a bloody cheat, — you are. But spite of all 

your tricks, it 
Is not in you, Judge Lynch to do. No ! no how you 

can fix it !" 



Thus spake Judge Lynch, as there he sat in Alabama's 

. forum. 
Around he gazed with legs upraised upon the bench high 

o'er him ; 
And, as he gave this sentence stern to him who stood 

beneath. 
Still, with his gleaming bowie-knife he slowly picked his 

teeth. 

ft was high noon, the month was June, and sultry was 

the air, 
A cool gin-sling stood by his hand, his coat hung o'er 

his chair ; 
All naked were his manly arms, and, shaded by his hat, 
r^ike an old Senator of Rome, that simple Archon sat, 



48 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" A bloody cheat? — Oh, legs and feet !" in wrath young 

Silas cried ; 
And, springing high into the air, he jerked his quid 

aside. — 
" No man shall put my dander up, or with my feelings 

trifle, 
As long as Silas Fixings wear* a bowie-knife and rifle." 

" If your shoes pinch," replied Judge Lynch, " you '11 

very soon have ease, 
I '11 give you satisfaction, squire, in any way you 

please ; 
Where are your weapons 1 — knife or gun ? — at both I 'm 

pretty spry !" 
'Oh! 'tarnal death, you 're spry, you are?" quoth 

Silas ; " so am I !" 

Hard by the town a forest stands, dark with the shades 

of time, 
And they have sought that forest dark at morning's 

early prime; 
I^ynch, backed by Nehemiah Dodge, and Silas with a 

friend. 
And half the town in glee came down, to see that con 

test's end. 

They led their men two miles apart, they measured out 

the ground ; 
A belt of that vast wood it was, they notched the trees 

around ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 49 

Into the tangled brake they turned them off, and neither 

knew 
Where he should seek his wagered foe, how get him into 

view. 

With stealthy tread, and stooping head, from tree to 

tree they passed, 
They crept beneath the crackling furze, they held their 

rifles fast: 
Hour passed on hour, the noon-day sun smote fiercely 

down, but yet 
No sound to the expectant crowd proclaimed that they 

had met. 

And now the sun was going down, when, hark ! a rifle's 

crack ! 
Hush — hush ! another strikes the air, and all their breath 

drew back, — 
Then crashing on through bush and briar, the crowd from 

either side 
Rushed in to see whose rifle sure with blood the moss 

had dyed. 

Weary with watching up and down, brave Lynch con- 
ceived a plan. 

An artful dodge whereby to take at unawares his 
man; 

He hung his hat upon a bush, and hid himself 
hard by. 

Young Silas thought he had him fast, and at the hat 
let fly. 



50 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

It fell ; up sprung young Silas, — he hurled his gun away ; 
Lynch fixed him with his rifle from the ambush where 

he lay. 
The bullet pierced his manly breast — yet, valiant to the 

last, 
He drew his fatal bowie-knife, and up his foxtail* cast. 

With tottering steps and glazing eye he cleared the space 

between. 
And stabbed the air as, in Macbeth, still stabs the 

younger Kean ; 
Brave Lynch received him with a bang that stretched 

him on the ground, 
Then sat himself serenely down till all the crowd drew 

round. 

They hailed him with triumphant cheers — in him each 

loafer saw 
The bearing bold that could uphold the majesty of law ; 
And, raising him aloft, they bore him homewards at his 

ease, — 
That noble judge, whose daring hand enforced his owq 

decrees. 

They buried Silas Fixings in the hollow where he fell, 
And gum-trees wave above his grave — that tree he loved 

so well ; 
And the 'coons sit chattering o'er him when the nights 

are long and damp, 
But he sleeps well in that lonely dell, the Dreary 

'Possum Swamp. 

• The Yankee sub<titutp for tho chnpe.au de soir. 



THE BOOK OF 15ALLADS. .S' 



€\)t Mnm'B apnstrnpjiB tn 35n|. 

[Eapidly as oblivion dees its work now-a-days, the burst of amiable 
indignation with which enlightened America received the issue of 
Boz's " Notes," can scarcely yet be forgotten. Not content with wa 
ginga universal rivalry in the piracy of the work, Columbia showered 
upon its author the riclies of its own choice vocabulary of abuse; 
while some of her more fiery spirits threw out playful hints as io the 
propriety of gouging the "stranuger," and furnishing him with a per- 
manent suit of tar and feathers, in the very improbable event of his 
paying them a second visit. The perusal of these animated expres- 
sions of free opinion suggested the following lines, which those who 
remember Boz's book, and the festivities with which he was all but 
hunted to death, will at once understand. AYe hope we have done 
justice to the bitterness and " immortal hate" of these thin-skinned 
sons of freedom.] 

Sneak across the wide Atlantic, worthless London's 

puling child, 
Better that its waves should bear thee, than the land 

thou hast reviled ; 
Better in the stifling cabin, on the sofa should'st thou 

lie, 
Sickening as the fetid nigger bears the greens and bacon 

Better, when the midnight horrors haunt the strained 

and creaking ship, 
Thou , should'st yell in vain for brandy with a fever 

sodden lip ; 



r/.:. THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Wlven amid the deepening darkness and the lamp's 

expiring shade, 
From the bagman's berth above thee comes the boim- 

tiful cascade. 
Better than upon the Broadway thou should'st be at 

noon-day seen, 
Smirking like a Tracy Tupman ^Yith a Mantalini mien, 
With a rivulet of satin falling o'er thy puny chest, 
Worse thaK even N. P. Willis for an evening party 

dressed ! 

We received thee warmly — kindly — though we knew 

thou wert a quiz, 
Partly for thyself it may be, chiefly for the sake of 

Phiz! 
Much we bore and much we suffered, listening to 

remorseless spells 
Of that Smike's unceasing drivellings, and these ever- 
lasting Nells. 
When you talk of babes and sunshine, fields, and all 

that sort of thing, 
Each Columbian inly chuckled, as he slowly sucked his 

sling ; 
And though all our sleeves were bursting, from the 

many hundreds near, 
Not one single scornful titter rose on thy complacent ear. 

Then to show thee to the ladies, with our usual want of 

sense 
We engaged the plrxe in Park Street at a ruinous 

expense ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 5g 

Ev'n our own three-volumed Cooper waived his old pre 

scriptive right, 
A.nd deluded Dickens figured first on that eventful 

night. 
Clusters of uncoated Yorkers, vainly striving to be cool, 
Saw thee desperately plunging through the perils of La 

Poule; ^ 

And their muttered exclamation drowned the tenor of 
the tune, — 

'' Don't he beat all natur hollow? Don't he foot it like 
a ' coon ? " 

Did we spare our brandy-cocktails, stint thee of our 

whisky-grogs ? 
Half the juleps that we gave thee would have floored a 

Newman No<Tfjs ; 
And thou took'st them in so kindly, little was there then 

to blame. 
To thy parched and panting palate sweet as mother's 

milk they came. 
Did the hams of old Virginny find no favor in thine 

eyes 1 
Came no soft compunction o'er thee at the thought of 

pumpkin pies ? 
Could not all our care and coddling teach thee how to 

draw it mild ? 
But, no matter, we deserve it. Serves us right ! We 
spoilt the child ! 

You, forsooth, must come crusading, boring us with 

broadest hints 
Of your own peculiar losses by American reprints. 



54 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Such an impudent remonstrance never in our face was 

flung; 
Lever stands it, so does Ainsworth ; you, I guess, may 

hold your tongue. 
Down our throats you'd cram your projects, thick ano 

hard as pickled salmon. 
That, I s'pose, you call free-trading, I pronounce it utter 

gammon. 
No, my lad, a cuter vision than your own might soon 

have seen, 
That a true Columbian ogle carries little that is green. 
Quite enough we pay, I reckon, when we stump a cent 

or two 
For the voyages and travels of a freshman such as you. 

I have been at Niagara, I have stood beneath the 

Falls, 
[ have marked the water twisting over its rampagious 

walls ; 
But " a holy calm sensation," one, in fact, of perfect 

peace, 
Was as much my first idea as the thought of Christmas 

geese. 
As for " old familiar faces," looking through the misty 

air. 
Surely you were strongly liquored when you saw your 

Chuckster there. 
One familiar face, however, you will very likely see. 
If you'll only treat the natives to a call in Tennessee, 
Of a certain individual, true Columbian every inch, 
In a high judicial station, called by 'mancipators. Lynch. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 55 

Kalf-an-hour of conversation with his worship in a wood • 
Would, 1 strongly notion, do you an infernal deal of 

good. 
Then you'd understand more clearly than you ever did 

before, 
Why an independent patriot freely spits upon the floor, 
Why he gouges when he pleases, why he whittles at the 

chairs. 
Why for swift and deadly combat still the bowie-knife 

he bears : — 
Why he sneers at the Old Country with republican 

disdain, 
And, unheedful of the negro's cry, still tighter drawls his 

chain. 
All these things the judge shall teach thee of the land 

thou hast reviled ; 
Get thee o'er the wide Atlantic, worthless London's 

puling chiJd ! 



56 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS, 



€\)t Itiiiirnt nf M\i, 

Once, — 't was when I lived at Jena, — 

At a Wirthshaus' door I sat ; 
And in pensive contempLation, 

Eat the sausage thick and fat ; 
Eat the Ivraut, that never souror 

Tasted to my lips than here ; 
Smoked my pipe of strong canaster, 

Sipped my fifteenth jug of beer ; 
Gazed upon the glancing river, 

Gazed upon the tranquil pool, 
Whence the silver-voiced Undine, 

When the nights were calm and cool, 
As the Baron Fouquc tells us, 

Rose from out her shelly grot. 
Casting glamor o'er the waters, 

Witching that enchanted spot. 
From the shadow which the coppice 

Flings across the rippling stream, 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 57 

Did I hear a sound of music — 

W as it thought or was it dream ? 
There, beside a pile of linen, 

Stretched along the daised sward, 
Stood a young and blooming maiden — 

'T was her thrush-like song I heard, 
Evermore within the eddy 

Did she plunge the white chemise ; 
And her robes were loosely gathered 

Rather far above her knees ; 
Then my breath at once forsook me, 

For too surely did I deem 
That I saw the fair Undine 

Standing in the glancing stream — 
And I felt the charm of knighthood ; 

And from that remembered day, 
Every evening to the Wirthshaus 

Took I my enchanted way. 
Shortly to relate my story, 

Many a week of summer long, 
Came I there, when beer-o'ertaken, 

With my lute and with my sonp ; 
Sang in mellow-toned soprano, 

All my love and all my wo. 
Till the river-maiden answered, 

Lilting in the stream below : — 
" Fair Undine ! sweet Undine ! 

Dost thou love as I love thee V 
** Love is free as running water," 

Was the answer made to me. 



58 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Thus, in interchange seraphic, 

Did I woo my phantom fay, 
Till the nights grew long and chilly. 

Short and shorter grew the day ; 
Till at last — 't was dark and gloomy. 

Dull and starless was the sky. 
And my steps were all unsteady. 

For a little flushed was I, — 
To the well accustomed signal 

No response the maiden gave ; 
But I heard the waters washing. 

And the moaning of the wave. 

Vanished was my own Undine, 
All her linen, too, was gone ; 

And I walked about, lamenting, 
On the river bank alone. 

Idiot that I was, for never 

Had I asked the maiden's name. 

Was it Lieschen — was it Gretchen i 
Had she tin — or whence she camel 

So I took my trusty meerschaum, 

And I took my lute likewise ; 
Wandered forth in minstrel fashion. 

Underneath the lowering skies ; 
Sang before each comely Wirthshaus, 

Sang beside each purling stream. 
That same ditty which I chanted 

"When Undine was my theme, 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Singing, as I sang at Jena, 

When the shifts were hung to dry, 
"Fair Undine! young Undine! 

Dost thou love as well as 1 1" 

But, alas ! in field or village, 

Or beside the pebbly shore, 
Did I see ihose glancing ankles, 

And the white robe nevermore ; 
And no answer came to greet me, 

No sweet voice to mine replied ; 
But I heard the waters rippling, 

And the moaning of the tide. 



fii) 




"The moaning of the tied 



CO THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€\^t t^ nf tljB iCtnttL 

There is a sound that's dear to me. 

It haunts me in my sleep ; 
I wake, and, if I hear it not, 

I cannot choose but weep. 
Above the roaring of the wind. 

Above the river's flow, 
Methinks I hear the mystic cry 

Of " Clo !— Old Clo !" 

The exile's song, it thrills among 

The dwellings of the free, 
Its sound is strange to English ears. 

But 't is not strange to me ; 
For it hath shook the tented field 

In ages long ago, 
And hosts have quailed before the cry 

Of "Clo!— Old Clo!" 

Oh, lose it not ! forsake it net ! 

And let no time efface 
The memory of that solemn sound, 

The watchword of our race. 



THE BOOK or BALLADS 

For not b}'- dark and eagle eye 
The Hebrew shall you know, 

So well as by the plaintive cry 
Of "Clo!— OldClo!" 

Even now, perchance, by Jordan's banks, 

Or Sidon's sunny walls, 
Where, dial-like, to portion time, 

The palm-tree's shadow falls, 
The pilgrims, wending on their way. 

Will linger as they go, 
And listen to the distant cry 

Of - Clo !— Old Clo !" 




6? THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



AFTER THE MANNER OF SCHILLER. 

" BuRSCH ! if foaming beer content ye, 

Come and drink your fill ; 
In our cellars there is plenty ; 

Himmel ! how you swill ! 
That the liquor hath allurance, 

Well I understand ; 
But 't is really past endurance, 

When you squeeze my hand !" 

And he heard her as if dreaming, 

Heard her half in awe ; 
And the meerschaum's smoke came streaming 

From his open jaw : 
And his pulse beat somewhat quicker 

Than it did before, 
And he finished off his liquor, 

Staggered through the door ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Bolted off direct to Munich, 

And within the year 
Underneath his German tunic 

Stowed whole butts of beer. 
And he drank like fifty fishes, 

Drank till all was blue ; 
For he felt extremely vicious — 

Somewhat thirsty too. 

But at length this dire deboshing 

Drew towards an end ; 
Few of all his silber-groschen 

Had he left to spend. 
And he knew it was not prudent 

Longer to remain ; 
So, with weary feet, the student 

Wended home again. 

At the tavern's well known portal, 

Knocks he as before. 
And a waiter, rather mortal. 

Hiccups through the door, — 
" Masters 's sleeping in the kitchen ; 

You '11 alarm the house ; 
Yesterday the Jungfrau Fritchen 

Married baker Kraus !" 

Like a fiery comet bristling. 
Rose the young man's hair. 

And, poor soul ! he fell a-whistling, 
Out of sheer despair. 



04 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Down the gloomy street in silence, 

Savage-calm he goes; 
But he did no deed of vi'lence — 

Only blew his nose. 

Then he hired an airy garret 

Near her dwelling-place ; 
Grew a beard of fiercest carrot, 

Never washed his face ; 
Sate all day beside the casement, 

Sate a dreary man ; 
Found in smoking such an easement 

As the wretched can ; 

Stared for hours and hours together, 

Stared yet more and more ; 
Till in fine and sunny weather. 

At the baker's door. 
Stood, in apron white and mealy. 

That beloved dame, 
Counting out the loaves so freely, 

Selling of the same. 

Then like a volcano puffing, 

Smoked he out his pipe ; 
Sigh'd and supp'd on ducks and stuffing, 

Ham, and kraut, and tripe; 
Went to bed, and in the morning. 

Waited as before. 
Still his eyes in anguish turning 

To the baker's door; 



•THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 05 

Till, with apron white* and mealy, 

Came the lovely dame, 
Counting out the loaves so freely, 

Selling of the same. 
So, one day — the fact 's amazing ! — 

On his post he died ; 
And they found the body gazing 

At the baker's bride. 



6H THB BOOK OF BALLADS. 



Sigljt auit 3Mnruing. 

NOT BY SIR E. BULWER LYTTON. 

"Thy coffee, Tom, 's untasted, 

And thy egg is very cold ; 
Thy cheeks are wan and wasted, 

Not rosy as of old. 
My l>()y what has come o'er ye, 

You surely are not well ! 
Try some of that ham before ye, 

And then, Tom, ring the bell !" 

" I cannot eat, my mother, 

My tongue is parched and bound, 
And my head somehow or other, 

Is swim.ming round and round. 
In my eyes there is a fulness, 

And my pulse is beating quick ; 
On my brain is a weight of dulness; 

Oh, mother, I am sick !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 07 

" These long, long nights of watching 

Are killing you outright ; 
The evening dews are catching, 

And you 're out every night. 
Why does that horrid grumbler, 

Old Inkpen, work you so f 

Tom {lene siisiirrans) 

''• Mv head ! Oh, that tenth tumbler ! 
'T was that wihch wrought my wo !" 



tvS THK BOOK OF BALLADS 



CjtE foM 36it. 



The sun is in the sky, mother, the flower^ aie springing 

fair, 
And the melody of woodland birds is stirring in the 

air; 
The river, smiling to the sky, glides onward to the 

sea, 
And happiness is everywhere, oh motlier, but with 

me ! 

They are going to the church, mother, — I hear the 

marriage bell ; 
It booms along the upland, — oh! it haunts me like a 

knell ; 
He leads her on his arm, mother, he cheers her faltering 

step. 
And closely to his side she clings, — she does, the 

demirep ! 

They are crossing by the stile, mother, where we so oft 

have stood. 
The stile beside the shady thorn, at the corner of the 

wood ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 69 

And the boughs, that M^out to murmu)- back the words 

that won my ear, 
Wave their silver branches o'er him, as he leads his 

bridal fere. 

lie will pass beside the stream, mother, where first my 

hand he pressed, 
By the meadow where, with quivering lip. his passion 

he confessed ; 
And down the hedgerows where we 've strayed again 

and yet again ; 
But he will not think of me, mother, his broken-hearted 

Jane! " ' 

He said that I was proud, mother, that I looked for rank 

and gold, 
He said I did not love him,— he said my words were 

cold ; 
He said I kept him off and on, in hopes of higher 

game,— 
And it may be that I did, mother; but who hasn't done 

the same ? 

I did not know my heart, mother, — I know it now too 

late ; 
I thought that I without a pang could wed some nobler 

mate ; 
But no nobler suitor sought me,— and he has taken 

wing, 
And my heart is gone, and I am left a lone and blighted 

thing. 



70 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



You may lay me in my bed, mother, — n.y head ia 
throbbing sore ; 

And, mother, prithee, let the sheets be duly aired 
before ; 

A.nd, if yon 'd please, my mother dear, your poor des- 
ponding child. 

Draw me a pot of beer, mother, ana, mother, draw it 
mild! 




Love gone to poL' 



TJfE BOOK OF nALLAP/r,. Tl 



Thi skin is dark as jet, ladye, 

Thy cheek is sharp and high, 
And there's a cruel leer, love, 

Within thy rolling eye ! 
These tangled ebon tresses 

No comb hath e'er gone through ; 
And thy forehead it is furrowed hy 

The elegant tattoo ! 



1 love thee, — oh, I love thee, 

Thou strangely feeding maid ! 
Nay, lift not thus thy boomerang. 

I meant not to upbraid ! 
Come, let me'taste those yellow lips 

That ne'er were tasted yet. 
Save when the shipwrecked mariner 

Pass'd through them for a whet. 

Nay, squeeze me not so tightly ! 

For I am gaunt and thin, 
There's little flesh to tempt thee 

Beneath a convict's skin. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS-- 

I came not to be eaten, 

I sought thee, love, to woo ; 

Besides, bethmk thee, clearest, 
Thou 'st dined on cockatoo ! 

Thy father is a chieftain ; 

Why that's the very thing ! 
Within my native country 

I, too, have lieen a king. 
Behold this branded letter. 

Which nothing can efface ! 
It is the royal emblem. 

The token of my race ! 

But rebels rose against me. 

And dared my power disown — 
You've heard, love, of the judges ^ 

They drove me from my throne. 
And I have wandered hither, 

Across the stormy sea, 
In search of glorious freedom. 

In search, my sweet, of thee ! 

The bush is now my empire. 

The knife my sceptre keen ; 
Come with me to the desert wild, 

And be my dusky queen. 
I cannot give thee jewels, 

I have nor sheep nor cow. 
Yet there are kangaroos, love, 

And colonists enow. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 73 

We'll meet the unwary settler, 

As whistling home he goes, 
And I'll take tribute from him, 

His money and his clothes. 
Then on his bleeding carcass 

Thou'lt lay thy pretty paw, 
And lunch upon him roasted, 

Or, if you like it, raw ! 

Then come with me, my princess. 

My own Australian dear, 
Within this grove of gum trees. 

We'll hold our bridal cheer ! 
Thy heart with love is beating, 

I feeJ it through my side : — 
Hiirran then, for the noble pair, 

The OoDvict and his bride! 



74 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



CljB BnWtil Intj nf i^t Immtit % 0). Mhi 

Come and listen, lords and ladies, 

To a woful lay of 3 nine; 
He whose tailor's bill unpaid is. 

Let him now his c*,r inchne ! 
Leh liini hearken to my story, 

How the noblest of the land 
Fined long time in dreary duresse 

'Neath a sponging bailift*'s h.ino. 

I. O. Uwins! L O. Uwins! 

Baron's son although thou be, 
Thou must pay for thy misdoings 

In the country of the free ! 
None of all thy sire's retainers 

To thy rescue now may come; 
And there lie some score detainers, 
- With Abednego, the bum. 

Little reck'd he of his prison 

Whilst the sun was in the sky : 
Only when the moon was risen, . 

Did you hear the captive's cry, 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

For, till then, cigars and claret 
Lull'd him in oblivion sweet ; 

And he much preferr'd a garret, 
For his drinking, to the street. 

But the. moonlight, pale and broken, 

Pain'd at soul the Baron's son ; 
For he knew, by that soft token. 

That the larking had begun ; — 
That the stout and valiant Marquis 

Then was leading forth his swells, 
Mangling some policeman's carcass, 

Or purloining private bells. 

So he sat, in grief and sorrow, 

Rather drunk than otherwise. 
Till the golden gush of morrow 

Dawned once more upon his eyes . 
Till the sponging bailiffs daughter, 

Lightly tapping at the door, 
Brought his draught of soda water, 

Brandy-bottom'd as before. 

" Sweet Rebecca ! has your father. 

Think you, made a deal of brass f 
And she answered — " Sir, I rather 

Should imagine that he has." 
Uwins then, his whiskers scratchir^g, 

Leer'd upon the maiden's face, 
And, her hand with ardor catching. 

Folded her in close embrace. 



76 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" La, Sir ! let alone — you fright me !" 

Said the daughter of the Jew : 
*' Dearest, how those eyes delight me ! 

Let me love thee, darling, do ! " 
" Vat is dish ? " the Bailiff mutter'd, 

Rushing in with fury wild ; 
" Ish your muffins so veil butter'd 

Dat you darsh insult ma shild ? " 

" Honorable my intentions, 

Good Abednego, I swear ! 
And I have some small pretensions, 

For I am a Baron's heir. 
If you'll only clear my credit, 

And advance a thou* or so, 
She's a peeress — I have said it : 

Don't you twig, Abednego % " 

" Datsh a very different matter," 

Said the Bailiff, with a leer ; 

" But you musht not cut it fatter 

Than ta slish will shtand, ma tear ! 
if you seeksh ma approbation, 

You musht quite give up your rigsh ; 
A.lsho you musht join our nashun, 

And renounsh ta flesh of pigsh." 

Fast as one of Fagin's pupils, 

\. O. #11 wins did agree ! 
Little plagued with holy scruples 

From the starting post was he. 

• The fashionible abbrevi;ilinn for a thdusand pnunris 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 77 

But at times a baleful vision 

Rose before his trembling view, 
For he knew that circumcision 

Was expected from a Jew. 

At a meeting of the Rabbis 

Held about the Whitsuntide, 
Was this thorough-paced Barabbas 

Wedded to his Hebrew bride. 
All his former debts compounded, 

From the spunging house he came. 
And his father's feelings wounded 

With reflectiong on the same. 

But the sire his son accosted — 

" Split my wig ! if any more 
Such a double-dyed apostate 

Shall presume to cross my door ! 
Not a penny-piece to save ye 

From the kennel or the spout; — 
Dinner, John ! the pig and gravy ! — 

Kick this dirty scoundrel out ! " 

Forth rush'd I. O. Uwins faster 

Than all winking — much afraid, 
That the orders of the master 

Would be punctually obeyed : 
Sought his club, and then the sentence 

Of expulsion first he saw ; 
No one dared to own acquaintance 

With a bailiff's son-in-law. 



78 THE BOOK OF BALLAiio. 

Uselessly down Bond-street strutting 

Did he greet his friends of yore : 
Such a universal cutting 

Never man received before : 
Till at last his pride revolted — 

Pale, and lean, and stern he grew ; 
And his wife Rebecca bolted 

With a missionary Jew. 

Ye who read this doleful ditty, 

Ask ye where is Uwins now ? 
Wend your way through London city, 

Climb to Holborn's lofty brow. 
Near the sign-post of the " Nigger,"" 

Near the baked-potato shed, 
You may see a ghastly figure 

With three hats upon his head, , 

When the evening shades are dusky, 

Then the phantom form di'aws near, 
And, with accents low and husky, 

Pours effluvium in your ear : 
Cl'aving an immediate barter 

Of your trousers or surtout. 
And you know the Hebrew martyr. 

Once the peerless I. O. U. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 79 



Did you ever hear the story — 

Old the legend is and true — 
How 1 knyghte of fame and gloiy 

A\\ aside his armor threw ; 
Spouted spear and pawned habergeon, 

Pledged his sword and surcoat gay, 
Sate down cross-legged on the shop-board 

Sate and stitched the livelong day 1 

"Taylzeour! not one single shilling 

Does my breeches' pocket hold : 
I to pay am really willing, 

If I only had the gold. 
Farmers none can I encounter, 

Graziers there are none to kill ; 
Therefore, prithee, gentle taylzeour, ^ 

Bother not about thy bill." 

" Good Sir Knyghte, just once too often 
Have you tried that slippery trick ; 

Hearts like mine you cannot soften, 
Vaii\y do you ask for tick. 



80 THE BOOK OF BALLADb 

Christmas and its bills are coming. 
Soon will they be showering in ; 

Therefore, once for all, my rum 'un, 
1 expect you '11 post the tin. 

" Mark, Sir Knyghte, that gloomy baylitfe, 

In the palmer's amice brown ; 
He shall lead you unto jail, if 

Instantly you stump not down." 
Deeply swore the young crusader, 

But the taylzeour would not hear; 
And the gloomy bearded bayliffe 

Evermore kept sneaking near. 

" Neither groat nor maravedi 

Have I got my soul to bless ; 
And I feel extremely seedy, 

Languishing in vile duresse. 
Therefore listen, ruthless taylzeour, 

Take my steed and armor free. 
Pawn them at thy Hebrew uncle's, 

And I'll work the rest for thee." 

Lightly leaped he on the shop-board, 

Lightly crooked his manly limb. 
Lightly drove the glancing needle 

Through the growing doublet's rim. 
Gaberdines in countless number 

Did the taylzeour-knyghte repair! 
And the cabbage and cucumber 

Were his sole and simple fare. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Once his weary task beguiling 

With a low and. plaintive song, 
That good knyghte o'er miles of broadcloth 

Drove the hissing goose along ; 
From her lofty lattice window, 

Looked the taylzeour's daughter down, 
And she instantly discovered 

That her heart was not her own. 

" Canst thou love me, gentle stranger ?" 

Blushing like a rose she stood — 
And the knyghte at once admitted, 

That he rather thought he could. 
" He who weds me shall have riches. 

Gold, and lands, and houses free." 
" For a single pair oi— small clothes^ 

I would roam the world with thee !" 

Tlien she flung him down the tickets — 

Well the knyghte their import knew — 
"Take this gold, and win thy armor. 

From the unbelieving Jew. 
Though in garments mean and lowly. 

Thou wouldst roam the world with me, 
Only as a belted warrior. 

Stranger, will I wed with thee !" 

At the feast of good Saint Alban, 

Li the middle of the Spring, 

There was some superior jousting 

By the order of the king. 
4* 



S2 THE BOOK OF BALiADS. 

" Valiant knyghtes !" exclaimed the monarch, 
" You will please to understand, 

He who bears himself most bravely, 
Shall obtain my daughter's hand." 

Well and bravely did they bear them, 

Bravely battled, one and all ; 
But the bravest in the tourney 

Was a warrior stout and tall. 
None could tell his name or lineage. 

None could meet him in the field. 
And a goose regardant proper 

Hissed along his azure shield. 

" Warrior, thou hast won my daughter I" 

But the champion bowed his knee, 
" Princely blood may not be wasted 

On a simple knyghte like me. 
She I love is meek and lowly ; 

But her heart is high and frank ; 
And there must be tin forthcoming, 

That will do as well as rank." 

Slowly rose that nameless warrior, 

Slowly turned his steps aside, 
Passed the lattice where the princess 

Sate in beauty, sate in pride. 
Passed the row of noble ladies, 

Hied him to an humbler seat. 
And in silence laid the chaplet 

At the taylzeou]-'s daughter's feet. 



THE BOOK OP BALLADS. 83 



It was the Lord of Castlereagh, he sat within his room, 
His arms were crossed upon his breast, his face was 

marked with gloom ; 
They said that St. Helena's Isle had rendered up its 

charge, 
That France was bristling high in arms, — the Emperor 

at large. 

'Twas midnight ! all the lamps were dim, and dull as 

death the street. 
It might be that the watchman slept that night upon hir 

beat, 
When, lo ! a heavy foot was heard to creak upon the 

stair, 
The door revolved upon its hinge, — Great Heaven! — 

What enters there ? 

A. little man, of stately mien, with slow and solemn 

stride ; 
His hands are crossed upon his back, his coat is opened 

wide: 



S4 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

And on his vest of green he wears an eagle and a 
star, — 

Saint George ! protect us ! 't is The Man — the thunder- 
bolt of war ! 

Is that the famous hat that waved along Marengo's 

ridge 1 
Are these the spurs of Austerlitz — the boots of Lodi's 

bridge 1 
Leads he the conscript swarm again from France's hornet 

hive'? 
What seeks the fell usurper here, in Britain, and alive ? 

Pale grew the Lord of Castlereagh, his tongue was 

parched and dry, 
As in his l)rain he felt the glare of that tremendous eye ; 
What wonder if he shrunk in fear, for who could meet 

the glance 
Of him who reared, 'mid Russian snows, the gonfalon 

of France 1 

From the side-pocket of his vest, a pinch the despot 

took, 
Yet not a whit did he relax the sternness of his look, — 
" Thou thought' st the lion was afar, but he hath bui^t 

the chain — 
The watchword'' for to-night is France — the answer, St. 

Helene. 

" And didst thou deem the barren isle, or ocean waves, 

could bind 
The master of the universe — the monarch of mankind'? 



THE BOOK OF BALlADS. 85 

I tell thee, fool ! the world itself is all too small for me, 
I laugh to scorn thy bolts and bars — I burst them, and 
am free. 

" Thou think'st that England hates me ! Mark ! — This 

very night my name 
Was thundered in its capital with tumult and ac<;Iaim ! 
They saw me, knew me, owned my power — Proud lord ! 

I say, beware ! 
There be men within the Surrey side, who know to do 

and dare ! 

"To-morrow, in thy very teeth, my standard will I rear — 
Ay, well that ashen cheek of thine may blanch and 

shrink with fear ! 
To-morrow night another town shall sink in ghastly 

flames ; 
And as I crossed the Borodin, so shall I cross the 

Thames ! 

"Thou 'It seize me, wilt thou, ere the dawn? Weak 

lordling, do thy worst? 
These hands ere now have broke thy chains, thy fetters 

they have burst. 
Yet, wouldst thou know my resting-place 1 Behold 't is 

written there ! 
fVnd let thy coward myrmidons approach me if they 

dare !" 

Another pinch, another stride — he passes through the 

door — 
*' Was it a phantom or a man was standing on the floor? 



HO 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



And could that be the Emperor that moved before my 

eyes? 
Ah, yes ! too sure it was himself, for here the paper 

lies!" 

With trembling hands. Lord Castlercagh undid the mys- 
tic scroll, 

With glassy eye essayed to read, for fear was on his 
soul — 

What's here ? — ' At Astley's, every night, the play of 
Moscow's Fall ! 

Napoleon for the thousandth tline, by Mr. Gdmsrsal !" 




THE BOOK OF BALLADS. ft7 



'^t t^ nf tjjB jCnnrlnrti. 

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission 

of the chair, 
I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air. 

Whether 't was the sauce at dinner, or that glass of gin- 
ger beer, 

Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little 
queer. 

Let me go. Now, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, 

this is too bad ! 
When you want me, ask the waiter, he knows where 

I'm to be had. 

Whew ! This is a great relief now ! Let me but undo 

my stock, 
Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady 

like a rock. 

In my ears I hear the singing of a lot of favorite tunes — 
Bless my heart, how very odd ! Why, surely there's a 
brace of moons ! 



h.S THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Seel the stars! how bright they twinkle, w.nking with 

a frosty glare, 
Like my faithless cousin Amy when she drove me to 

despair. 

0, my cousin, spider-hearted ! Oh. my Amy ! No, 

confound it ! 
I must wear the mournful willow, — all around my hat 

I've bound it. 



Falser than the Bank of Fancy^^ — frailer than a shillini^ 

glove, 
Puppet to a father's anger, — minion to a nabob's love ! 



Is it well to wish thee happy? Having known me, 

could you ever 
Stoop to marry half a heart, and little more than half a 

liver ? 

Happy ! Damme ! Thou shalt lower to his level day 

by day. 
Changing from the best of China to the commonest of 

clay. 

As the husband is, the wife is, — he is stomach-plagued 

and old ; 
And his curry soups will make thy cheek the color of 

his gold. 

When his feeble love is sated, he will hold thee surely 

then 
Something lower than his hookah, — something less than 

his cayenne. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. SP 

What is tins'? His eyes are pinky. Was't the claret "? 

Oh, no, no, — 
Bless your soul, it was the salmon, — salmon always 

makes him so. 

Take him to thy dainty chamber — soothe him with thy 

lightest fancies, 
He will understand thee, won't he? — pay thee with a 

lover's glances 1 

Louder than the loudest trumpet, harsh as harshest 

ophicleide, 
Nasal respirations answer the endearments of his bride. 

Sweet response, delightful music ! Gaze upon thy noble 

charge 
Till the spirit fill thy bosom that inspired the meek 

Laftlirge. 

Better thou wert dead before me, — better, better that 1 

stood 
Looking on thy murdered body, like the injured Daniel 

Good ! 

Better, thou and I were lying, cold and timber-stiff and 

dead, 
With a pan of burning charcoal underneath our nuptial 

bed! 

Cursed be the bank of England's notes, that tempt the 

soul to sin ! 
Cursed be the want of acres, — doubly cursed the want 

of fin ! 



90 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Cursed be the n.arriage contract, that enslaved thy soul 

to greed ! 
Cursed be the sallow lawyer, that prepared and drew 

the deed ! 

Cursed be his foul apprentice, who the loathsome fees 

did earn ! 
Cursed be the clerk and parson, — cursed be the ^hole 

concern ! 



Oh, 't is well that 1 should bluster, — much I'm like to 

make of that ; 
Better comfort have I found in singing " All Around my 

Hat." 

But that song, so wildly plaintive, palls upon my British 

ears. 
'T will not do to pine for ever, — I am getting up in 

years. 

Can't I turn the honest penny, scribbling for the weekly 
press. 

And in writing Sunday libels drown my private wretch- 
edness ? 

Oh, to feel the wild pulsation that in manhood's dawn J 

knew. 
When my days were all before me, and my years were 

twenty-two. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I'l 

When 1 smoked my independent pipe along the Quad- 
rant wide, 

With the many larks of London flaring up on every 
side. 

W hen I went the pace so wildly, caring little what might 

come, 
Coflee-milling care and sorrow, with a nose-adapted 

thumb. 

Felt the exquisite enjoyment, tossing nightly off, oh 

heavens ! 
Brandy at the Cider Cellars, kidneys smoking-hot at 

Evans' ! 

Or in the Adelphi sitting, half in rapture, half in tears. 
Saw the glorious melo-drama conjure up the shades of 
years ! 

Saw Jack Sheppard, noble stripling, act his wondrous 

feats again. 
Snapping Newgate's bars of iron, like an infant's daisy 

chain. 

Might was right, and all the terrors which had held the 

w^orld in awe 
Were despised, and prigging prospered, spite of Laurie, 

spite of law. 

In such scenes as these I triumphed, ere my passion's 
edge was rusted, 

And my cousin's cold refusal left me very much dis- 
gusted ! 



\)2 THF, BCOK OF BALLADS. 

Since, my heart is sere and withered, and I do not car^j 

a cur&e 
Whether worse shall be the better, or the better be the 

worse. 

Hark ! my merry comrades call me, bawling for another 

jorum ; 
They would mock me in derision, should I thus appear 

before 'em. 

Womankind no more shall vex me, such at least, as go 

arrayed 
In the most expensive satins, and the newest silk brocade. 

I '11 to Afric, lion-haunted, where the giant forest yields 
Rarer robes and finer tissue than are sold at Spital 
fields. 

Or to burst all chains of habit, flinging habit's self 

aside, 
I shall walk the tangled jungle in mankind's primeval 

pride ; 

Feeding on the luscious berries and the rich cassava 

root, 
Lots of dates and lots of guavas, clusters of forbidden 

fruit. 

Never comes the trader thither, never o'er the purple 

main 
Sounds the oath of British commerce, or the accents of 

Cockaigne. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. '93 

There, methinks, would be enjc^yment, where no envirous 

rule prevents; 
Sink the steamboats ! cuss the railways ! rot, O rot the 

Three per Cents ! 

There the passions, cramped no longer, shall have space 

to breathe, my cousin ! 
1 will take some savage woman — nay, I '11 take at least 

a dozen. 

There I '11 rear my young mulattoes, as no Bond Street 

brats are reared : 
They shall dive for aligators, catch the wild goats by the 

beard — 

Whistle to the cockatoos, and mock the hairy-fliced 

baboon, 
Worship mighty Mumbo Jumbo in the Mountains of 

the Moon. 

I myself, in far Timbuctoo, leopard's blood will daily 

quaff, 
Ride a tiger-hunting, mounted on a thorough-bred giraffe. 

Fiercely shall I shout the war-whoop, as some sullen 
stream he crosses, 

Startling from their noon-day slumbers, iron-bound rhino- 
ceroses. 

Fool ! again the dream, the fancy ! But I know my 

words are mad. 
For I hold the grey barbarian lower than the Christian 

cad. 



94 THE BOOK OF B k.LLADS. 

I the swell — the city dandy ! 1 to seek such hoi-rid 

places, — 
I to haunt with squalid negroes, blubber-lips, and nrion- 

key faces. 

1 to wed with Coromantees! ,1, who managed — very 

near — 
To secure the heart and fortune of the widow Shilli- 

beer ! 

Stuff and nonsense ! let me never fling a single chance 

away, 
Maids ere now, I know, have loved me, and another 

maiden may. 

" Morning Post," (" The Times" won't trust me) help 

me, as I know you can ; 
I will pen an advertisement, — that 's a never-failing 

plan. 

"Wanted — By a bard in wedlock, some young inter 
esting woman : 

Looks are not so much an object, if the shiners be forth- 
coming ! 

" Hymen's chains, the advertiser vows, shall be but silken 

fetters. 
Please address to A. T., Chelsea. N. B. — You must pay 

the letters." 

That 's the sort of thing to do it. Now I '11 go and 

taste the balmy, — 
Rest thee with thy yellow nabob, spider-hearted cousin 

Amy ! 



Tins BOOK OF BALLADS. 95 



3Bij Wih'^ €mm 

Decked with shoes of blackest poh'sh, 

And with shirt as white as snow, 
After matutinal breakfast 

To my daily desk I go ; 
First a fond salute bestowing 

On my Mary's ruby lips, 
Which, perchance, may be rewarded 

With a pair of playful nips. 

All day long across the ledger 

Still my patient pen I drive. 
Thinking what a feast awaits me 

In my happy home at five ; 
In my small, one-storied Eden, 

Where my wife awaits my coming. 
And our solitary handmaid 

Mutton chops with care is crumbing. 

When the clock proclaims my freedom. 

Then my hat 1 seize and vanish ; 
Every trouble from my bosom, 

Every anxious care I banish. 



l*n THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Swiftly brushing o'er the pavement, 

At a furious pace 1 go, 
Till I reach my darling dwelling 

In the wilds of Pimlico. 

*' Mary, wife, where art thou, dearest V* 

Thus I cry, while yet afar; 
Ah ! what scent invades my nostrils 1 — 

'T is the smoke of a cigar ! 
Instantly into the parlor 

Like a maniac I haste. 
And I find a young Life-Guardsman, 

With his arm round Mary's waist. 

And his other hand is playing 

Most familiarly with hers ; 
And I think my Brussels carpet 

Somewhat damaged by his spurs. 
" Fire and furies ! what the blazes ?" 

Thus in frenzied wrath I call ; 
When my spouse her arms upraises,. 

With a most astounding squall. 

''Was there ever such a monster : 

Ever such a wretched wifel 
Ah ! how long must I endure it : 

How protract this hateful life ? 
All day long quite unprotected, 

Does he leave his wife at home ; 
And she cannot see her cousins, 

Even when they kindly come !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 9? 

Then the young Life-Guardsman, rising, 

Scarce vouchsafes, a single word, 
But with look of deadly menace, 

Claps his hand upon his sword; 
And in fear I fliintly falter — 

"This your cousin, then he 's mine! 
Very glad, indeed, to see you, — 

Won't you stop with us, and dinel" 

Won't a, ferret suck a rabbit ? — 

As a thing of course he stops ; 
And, with most voracious swallov/ 

Walks into my mutton chops. 
In the twinkling of a bed-post, 

Is each savoury platter clear, 
And he shows uncommon sciecee 

In his estimate of beer. 

Half-and-half goes down before him, 

Gurgling from the pewter-pot > 
And he moves a counter motion 

For a glass of something hot. 
Neither chops nor beer I grudge him, 

Nor a moderate share of goes ; 
But 1 know not why he's always 

Treading upon Mary's toes. 

Evermore, when home returning. 

From the counting house I come, 
Do I find the young Life-Guardsman 

Smoking pipes and drinking rum. 



{N THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Evermore he stays to dinner, 
Evermore devours my m^al ; 

For I have a wholesome horror 
Both of powder and of steel. 

Yet I Know he 's Mary's cousin, 

For my only son and heir 
Much resembles that young Guardsman, 

With the self-same curly hair • 
But I wish he would not always 

Spoil my carpet with his spurs ; 
And 1 'd rather see his fingers 

In the iire, than touching hen;. 



TIi£ BOOK OF BALLADS. Ui* 



(EIj2 (^nnn in fimu. 

AN ANCIENT SCOTTISH BALLAD. 
PART I. 

It fell upon the August month, 

When landsmen bide at hame, 
That our gude Queen went out to sail 

Upon the saut-sea faeni. 

And she has ta'en the silk and gowd, 

The like was never seen ; 
And she has ta'en the Prince Albert, 

And the bauld Lord Aberdeen. 

" Ye'se bide at hame, Lord Wellington : 

Ye daurna gang wi' me : 
For ye hae l^een ance in the land o' France, 

And that 's eneuch for ye." 

" Ye'se bide at hame. Sir Robert Peel, 
To gather the red and the white monie ; 

And see that my men dinna eat me up 
At Windsor wi' their gluttonie." 



k)0 THK BOOK OF BALLAD";. 

They hadna sailed a league, a league,— - 

A league, but barely twa, 
When the lift grew dark, and the waves grew wan, 

And the wind began to blaw. 

" O weel, weel may the waters rise, 

In welcome o' their Queen ; 
What gars ye look sae white, Albert 1 

What makes your e'e sae green ?" 

"My heart is sick, my held is sair: 

Gie me a glass o' gude brandie : 
To set my foot on the braid green sward. 

I 'd gie the half o' my yearly fee. 

" It 's sweet to hunt the sprightly hare 
On the bonny slopes o' Windsor lea, 

But O, it 's ill to bear the thud 

And pitching o' the saut, saut sea !" 

And aye they sailed, and aye they sailed. 

Till England sank behind, 
And over to the coast of France 

They drave before the wind. 

Then up and spak the King o' France, 

Was birling at the wine ; 
" O wha may be the gay ladye 

Ttidt owns that ship sae fine *? 

•' And wha may be that bonny lad, 

That looks sae pale and wan 1 
I '11 wad my lands o' Pi cardie 

That he ^& nae Fndisnman." 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. IQl 

Then up and spak an aiild French lord, 

Was sitting beneath his knee, 
" It is the Queen o' braid England 

That's come across the sea." 

"And O an it be England's Queen, 

She's welcome here the day; 
1 'd rather hae her for a friend 

Than for a deadly fae. 

" Gae, kill the eerock in the yard, 

The aifld sow in the stye, 
And bake for her the brockit calf, 

But and the puddock-pie !" 

And he has gane until the ship. 

As sune as it drew near, 
And he has ta'en her by the hand 

"Ye 're kindly welcome here!" 

And syne he kissed her on ae cheek. 

And syne upon the ither ; 
And he ca'ed her his sister dear, 

And she ca'ed him her brither. 

" Light doun, light doun now, layde mine, 

Light doun upon the shore; 
Nae English king has trodden here. 

This thousand years and more." 

" And gin I lighted on your land. 

As light fa' weel I may, 
O am I free to feast wi' you. 

And free to come and gae V 



102 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, 

And he has sworn by the Haly Rood, 
And the black stane o' Duniblane, 

That she is free to come and gae 
Till twenty days are gane. 

"I 've lippened to a Frenchman's aith." 

Said gude Lord Aberdeen ; 
" But I '11 never lippen to it again 

Sae lang 's the grass is green. 

" Yet gae your ways, my sovereign liege, 
Since better may na be ; * 

The wee bit bairns are safe at hame, 
By the blessing o' Marie!" 

Then doun she lighted frae the ship, 

She lighted safe and sound ; 
And glad was our good Prince Albert 

To step upon the ground. 

" Is that your Queen, My Lord," she said, 

" That auld and buirdly dame ? 
I see the crown upon her heid ; 

But I dinna ken her name." 

And she has kissed the Frenchman's Queen, 

And eke her daughters three, 
And gi'en her hand to the young Princess 

That louted upon the knee. 

And she has gane to the proud castle, 

That 's biggit beside the sea : 
But aye, when she thought o' the bairns at hame, 

The tear was in her e\'. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 108 

She gied the King the Cheshire. cheese, 

But and the porter fine ; 
And he gied her the puddock-pies, 

But and the blude-red wine. 

Then up and spak the dourest prince, 

An Admiral was he ; 
"Let 's keep the Queen o' England here, 

iSin' better may na be ! 

•' O mony is the dainty king 

That we hae trappit here ; 
And mony is the English yerl 

That 's in our dungeons drear !" 

"You lee, you lee, ye graceless loon, 

Sae loud 's I hear ye lee ! 
There never yet was Englishman 

That came to skaith by me. 

"Gae out, gae out, ye fliuse traitor! 

Gae out until the street ; 
It 's shame that Kings and Queens should sit 

Wi' sic a knave at meat !" 

Then up and raise the young French lord, 

In wrath and hie disdain— 
" O ye may sit, and ye may eat 

Your puddock-pies alane ! 

"But were I in my ain gude ship. 

And sailing wi' the wind, 
And did I meet wi' auld Napier, 

T 'd tell him o' my mind." 



104 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

O then the Queen leuch loud and lang, 
And her color went and came ; 

" Gin ye met wi' Charlie on the sea 
Ye 'd wish yersell at harae !" 

And aye they birllt at the wine, 

And drank right merrilie, 
Till the auld cock crawed in the castle-yard, 

And the abbey bell struck three. 

The Queen she gaed until her bed, 

And Prince Albert likewise ; 
And the last word that gay ladye said 

Was — " O thae puddock-pies !" 



The sun was high within the lift 
Afore the French King raise ; 

And syne he louped intil his sat.t, 
And warslit on his claes. 

" Gae up, gae up, my little foot-page, 

Gae up until the toun ; 
And gin ye meet wi' the auld harper, 

Be sure ye bring him doun." 

And he has met wi' the auld harper ; 

O but his e'en were red ; 
And the bizzing o' a swarm o' bees 

Was singing in his heid. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 10.> 

"Alack ! alack !" the harper said, 

" That this should e'er hae been ! 
I daurna gang before my liege, 

For I was fou yestreen." 

"It 's ye maun come, ye auld harper: 

Ye daurna tarry lang ; 
The King is just dementit-like 

For wanting o' a sang." 

And when he came to the King's chamber, 

He loutit on his knee, 
" O what may be your gracious will 

Wi' an auld frail man like me f 

" I want a sang, harper," he said, 

'"I want a sang richt speedilie; 
And gin ye dinna make a sang, 

1 '11 hang ye up on the gallows-tree." 

"I cannot do 't, my liege," he said, 
" Hae mercy on my auld gray hair ! 

But gin that I had got the words, 
I think that I might mak the air." 

" And wha 's to mak the words, fause loon. 
When minstrels we have barely twa ; 

And Lamartine is in Paris toun, 
And Victor Hugo far awa f ' 

^'The deil may gang for Lamartine, 

And flie awa wi' auld Hugo, 
For a better minstrel than them baith 

Within this very toun I know. 



106 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" O kens my liege the gude Walter, — 
At hame they ca' him Bon Gaultier 1 

He '11 rhyme ony day wi' True Thomas, 
And he is in the castle here." 

The French King first he lauchit loud, 
And syne did he begin to sing; 

" My e'en are auld, and my heart is cauld. 
Or I suld hae known the minstrels' King. 

" Gae take to him this ring o' gowd, 
And this mantle o' the silk sae fine, 

And bid him mak a maister sang 

For his sovereign ladye's sake and mine.' 

"I winna take the gowden ring, 

Nor yet the mantle fine : 
But I'll mak the sang for my ladye's sake. 

And for a cup of wine." 

The Queen was sitting at the cards, 

The King ahint her back ; 
And aye she dealed the red honors, 

And aye she dealed the black ; 

And syiie unto the dourest Prince 
She spak richt courteouslie : — 

" Now will ye play, Lord Admiral, 
Now will ye play wi' me V 

The dourest prince he bit his lip, 
And his brow was black as glaur : 

" The only game that e'er I play 
Is the bluidy game o' war !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 107 

" And gin ye play at that, young man, 

It weel may cost ye sair ; 
Ye 'd better stick to the game at cards, 

For you '11 win nae honors there !" 

The King he leuch, and the Queen she leuch, 

Till the tears ran blithely doun ; 
But the Admiral he raved and swore, 

Till they kicked him frae the room. 

The Harper came, and the Harper sang, 

And O but they were fain ; 
For when he had sung the gude sang twice, 

They called for it again. 

It was the sang o' the Field o' Gowd, 

In the days of auld lang syne ; 
When bauld King Henry crossed the seas, 

Wi' his brither King to dine. 

And aye he harped, and aye he carped, 

Till up the Queen she sprang — 
" I '11 wad a County Palatine, 

Gude Walter made that sang." 

Three days had come, three days had gane, 

The fourth began to fa'. 
When our gude Queen to the Frenchman said, 

" It 's time I was awa ! 

" O, bonny are the fields o' France, 

And saftly draps the rain : 
But my bairnies are in Windsor Tower, 

And greeting a' their lane. 



108 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Now ye maun come to me, Sir King, 

As I have come to ye ; 
And a benison upon your heid 

For a' your courtesie ! 

"Ye maun come, and bring your ladye fere: 

Ye sail na say me no ; 
And ye 'se mind, we have aye a bed to spare 

For your wily friend Guizot." 

Now he has ta'en her lily white hand. 

And put it to his lip, 
And he has ta'en her to the strand. 

And left her in her ship. 

"Will ye come back, sweet bird," he cried, 

"Will ye come kindly here. 
When the lift is blue, and the lavrocks sing, 

In the spring-time o' the year?" 

" It 's I would blithely come, my Loi-d, 

To see ye in the spring ; 
It 's I would blithely venture back, 

But for ae little thing. 

"It is na that the winds are rude. 

Or that the waters rise. 
But I lo'e the roasted beef at hame, 

And no thae puddock-pies !" 



THB BOOK OF BALLADS. 109 



FROM THE GAELIC. 
I. 

i*'HAiRSTON swore a feud 
Against the clan M'Tavish; 

Marched into their land 
To murder and to rafish : 

For he did resolve 

To extirpate the vipers, 

With four and twenty men, 

And five and thirty pipers. 



But when he had gone 

Half-way down Strath Canaan, 
Of his fighting tail 

Just three were remainin'. 
They were all he had, 

To back him in ta battle ; 
All the rest had gone 

Off", to drive ta cattle. 



110 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



' Fei7 coot !" cried Fhairshon, 

" So my clan disgraced is ; 
Lads, we '11 need to fight 

Pefore we touch the peasties. 
Here 's Mhic-Mac-Methusalen 

Coming wi' his fassals, 
Gillies seventy-three, 

And sixty Dhuinewassails !" 

IV. 

" Coot tay to you, sir ; 

Are not you ta Fhairsho" '? 
Was you coming here 

To visit any person *? 
You are a plackguard, sir ! 

It is now six hundred 
Coot long years, and more, 

Since my glen was plundered." 

V. 

Fat is tat you say ? 

Dar you cock your peaver ? 
T will teach you, sir, 

Fat is coot pehavior ! 
You shall not exist 

For another day more ; 
I will shot you, sir, 

Or stap you with my claymore !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I 1 I 

VI. 

" I am fery glad 

To learn what you mention, 
Since I can prevent 

Any such intention." 
So Mhic-Mac-Methusaleh 

Gave some warlike howls. 
Trew his skhian-dhu, 

An' stuck it in his powels. 

VII. 

In this fery way 

Tied ta faliant Fhairshon, ' 
Who was always thought 

A superior person. 
Fhairshon had a son, 

Who married Noah's daughter, 
And nearly spoiled ta Flood, 

By trinking up ta water. 

VIII. 

Which he would have done, 

I at least believe it, 
Had ta mixture peen 

Only half Glenlivet. 
This is all my tale : 

Sirs, I hope 't is new t' ye ! 
Here 's your fery good healths, 

And tamn ta whusky tuty ! 



( I 2 TflE BOOK OF BALLAi»s*. 



€1|B ^nuttg Itntkknte's ISrih 

'• O SWIFTLY speed the gallant bark ! — 

I say, you mind my luggage, porter ! 
1 do not heed yon storm-cloud dark, 

I go to wed old Jenkin's daughter. 
I go to claim my own Mariar, 

The fairest flower that blooms in Har-\ .ch 
My panting bosom is on fire, 

And all is ready for the marriage." 

Thus spoke young Mivins, as he stepped 

On board the " Firefly," Harwich packet ; 
The bell rung out, the paddles swept 

Plish-plashing round with noisy racket. 
The lowering clouds young Mivins saw, 

But fear, he felt, was only folly ; 
And so he smoked a fresh cigar, 

Then fell to whistling — " Nix my dolly !" 

The wind it roared ; the packet's hulk 
Rocked with a most unpleasant motion ; 

Young 'Mivins leant him o'er a bulk, 
And poured his sorrows to the ocean. 



THE BOOK iF BALLaDS. | 13 

Tints — blue and yellow — signs of wo — 
Flushed, rainbow-like, his noble face in, 

As suddenly he rushed below. 

Crying, " Steward, steward, bring a basin !" 

On sped the bark : the howling storm' 

The funnel's tapering smoke did blow far ; 
Unmoved, youno; Mivins' lifeless form 

Was stretched upon a hair-cloth sofa?*. 
All night he moaned, the steamer groaned, 

And he was hourly getting fainter ; 
When it came bump against the pier. 

And there was fastened by the painter. 

Young Mivins rose, and blew his nose, 

Caught wildly at his small portmanteau • 
He was unfit to lie or sit, 

And found it difficult to stand, too. 
He sought the deck, he sought the shore, 

He sought the lady's house like winking, 
And asked, low tapping at the door, 

" Is this the house of Mr. Jcnkin ?" 

A short man came — he told his name — 

Mivins was short — he cut him shorter, 
For in a fury, he exclaimed, 

" Are you the man as vants my darter ? 
Vot kim'd on you last night, young squire ?" 

"It was the steamer, rot and scuttle her!" 
"Mayhap it vos, but our Mariar, 

Valked off last night vith Bill the butler. 



114 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

•'And so you 've kim'd a post too late." 

" It was the packet, sir, miscai-ried !" 
" Vy, does you think a gal can vait 

As sets 'er 'art on being married'? 
Last night she vowed she 'd be a bride, 

And 'ave a spouse for vuss or better : 
So Bill struck in ; the knot vos tied, 

And now I vishes you rnay get her !" 

Young Mivins turned him from the spot, 

Bewilder'd with the dreadful stroke, her 
Perfidy came like a shot — 

He was a thunderstruck stockbroker. 
"A curse on steam and steamers too ! 

By their delays I 've been undone!" 
He cried, as, looking very blue. 

He rode a bachelor to London. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 115 



&\it riiurfntBs' (Kntimt]. 



BY THE HON. T B M A- 



[This and the five following poems were among those forwarded to 
the Home Secretary, by the unsuccessful competitors for the Laureate- 
ship, on its becoming vacant by the death of Southey. How they 
came in our possession is a matter between Sir James Graham and 
ourselves. The result of the contest could never have been doubtful, 
least of all the great poet who then succeeded to the bays. His own 
sonnet on the subject, is full of the serene consciousness of superiority, 
which does not even admit the idea of rivalry, far less of defeat. 

Bays, which in former days have graced the brow 

Of some, who lived and loved, and sung and died ; 

Leaves, that were gathered on the pleasant side 
Of old Parnassus from Apollo's bough ; 
With palpitating hand I take ye now, 

Since worthier minstrel there is none beside. 

And with a thrill of song half deified, 
1 bind them proudly on my locks of snow, 
There shall they bide, till he who follows next. 

Of whom I cannot even guess the name, 
Shall by Court favor, or some vain pretext 

Of fancied merit, desecrate the same, — 
And think, perchance, he wears them quite as well 
As the sole bard who sang of Peter Bell !] 



FYTTE THE FIRST. 

" What news, wlmt news, thou pilgrim grey, what news 

from southern land ? 
How fare the bold Conservatives, how is it with Ferrand 1 



no THE BOOK OF BALLAP3. 

How does the little Prince of Wales — how looks >ur 

lady Queen ) 
And tell me, is the gentle Brough* once more at Windsor 

seen f ' 



" I bring no tidings from the court, nor from St. Stephen's 

hall ; 
I 've heard the thundering tramp of horse, and the 

trumpet's battle call ; ■ • 

And these old eyes have seen a fight, which England 

ne'er hath seen. 
Since fell King Richard sobbed his soul through blood 

on Bosworth Green. 

" He 's dead, he 's dead, the Laureate's dead !" 'Twas 

thus the cry began, 
And straightway every garret roof gave up its minstrel 

man ; 
From Grub Street, and from Houndsditch, and from 

Farrinsdon Within, 
The poets all towards Whitehall poured on with eldritch 

din. 

Loud yelled they for Sir James the Graham : but sore 

afraid was he ; 
A hardy knight were he that might face such a min- 

strelsie. 



• For the convenience of future commentators it may be mentioned, that the 
'•gentle Brnugh" was the Monthly Nurse who attended her RI 'jesty ou th« 
occasion of the birth of the Princess Roval. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 11'7 

"Now by St. Giles of Netherby, my patron saint, I 

swear, 
I 'd rather by a thousand crowns Lord Palmerston were 

here ! — 

" What is 't ye seek, ye rebel knaves, what make you 

there beneath f 
" The bays, the bays ! we want the bays ! we seek the 

laureate wreath ! 
We seek the butt of generous wine that cheers the sons 

of song: 
Choose thou among us all, Sir Knight — we mav not 

tarry long !" 

Loud laughed the good Sir James in scorn — " Rare jest 

it were, I think. 
But one poor butt of Xeres, and a thousand rogues to 

drink ! 
An' if it flowed with wine or beer, 't is easy to be seen 
That dry within the hour would be the well of Hippo- 

crene. 

"Tell me, if on Parnassus' heights there grow a thou- 
sand sheaves: 

Or has Apollo's laurel bush yet borne ten hundred 
leaves ? 

Or if so many leaves were there, how long would they 
sustain 

The ravage and the glutton bite of such a locrst 
train 1 



118 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

"No! get ye back into your dens, take counsel for the 

night, 
And choose me out two champions to meet in deadly 

fight; 
To-morrow's dawn shall see the lists marked out in 

Spitalfields, 
And he who wins shall have the bays, and he shall die 

who yields !" 

Down went the window with a crash, — in silence and in 

fear 
Each ragged bard looked anxiously upon his neighbor 

near ; 
Then up and spake young Tennyson — " Who 's here that 

fears for death 1 
'T were better one of us should die, than England lose 

the wreath ! 

" Let's cast the lots among us now, which two shall fight 

to-morrow ; — 
For armor bright we '11 club our mite, and horses we 

can borrow. 
'T were shame that bards of France should sneer, and 

German JDichters too. 
If none of British song might dare a deed of derring-do H 

■•' The lists of love are mine," said Moore, " and not the 

lists of Mars ;" 
Said Hunt, " I seek the jars of wine, but shun the com 

bat's jars 1" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 119 

"I 'ni old," quoth Samuel Rogers. — -'Faith," cays 

Campbell, " so am I !" 
"And I 'm in holy orders, sir !" quoth Tom of Ingoldsbj, 

" Now out upon ye, craven loons!" cried Moxon, good 

at need, — 
" Bide, if ye will, secure at home, and sleep while others 

bleed. 
I second Alfred's motion, boys, — let 's try the chance of 

lot; 
And monks shall sing, and bells shall ring, for him that 

goes to pot." 

Eight hundred minstrels slunk away — two hundred 

stayed to draw, — 
Now heaven protect the daring wight that pulls the 

longest straw ! 
'T is done ! 't is done ! And who hath won ? Keep 

silence, one and all, — 
The first is William Wordsworth hight, the second Ned 

Fitzball !" 



FYTTE THE SECOND. 

Qh, bright and gay hath dawned the day on lordly 

Spitalfields, — 
How flash the rays with ardent blaze from polished 

helms and shields ! 
On either side the chivalry of England throng the 

green, 
\nd in the middle balcony appears our gracious Queen. 



120 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

With iron fists, to keep the lists, two valiant knights 

appear. 
The Marquis Hal of Waterford, and stout Sir Aubrey 

Vere. 
" What ho, there, herald, blow the trump ! Let 's see 

who comes to claim 
The butt of golden Xeres, and the Laureate's honored 

name !" 

That instant dashed into the lists, all armed from head 

to heel. 
On courser brown, with vizor down, a warrior sheathed 

in steel ; 
Then said our Queen — " Was ever seen so stout a knight 

and tall *? 
His name — his race f — " An 't please your grace, it is 

the brave Fitzball. 

"Oft in the Melodrama line his prowess hath been 

shown. 
And well throughout the Surrey side his thirst for blood 

is known. 
But see, the other champion comes !" — Then rung the 

startled air 
With shouts of " Wordsworth, Wordsworth, ho ! th^ 

bard of Rydal 's there." 

And lo ! upon a little steed, unmeet for such a 

course. 
Appeared the honored veteran ; but weak seemed man 

and horse. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 121 

Then shook their ears the sapient peers, — " That joust 

will soon be done: 
My Lord of Brougham, I '11 back Fitzball, and ^ive you 

two to one !" 

■' Done," quoth the Brougham, — "and done with you !" 

" Now, Minstrels, are you ready f 
Exclaimed the Lord of Waterford, — " You 'd better 

both sit steady. 
Blow, trumpets, blow the note of charge ! and forward 

to the fight !" 
"Amen !" said good Sir Aubrey Vere ; "Saint Schism 

defend the right !" 

As sweeps the blast against the mast, when blows the 
furious squall, 

So started at the trumpet's sound, the terrible Fitz- 
ball ; 

His lance he bore his breast before, — Saint George pro- 
tect the just, 

Or Wordsworth's hoary head must "roll along the shame 
ful dust ! 

" Who threw that calthrop ? Seize the knave !" Alas 

the deed is done ; 
Down went the steed, and o'er his head flew l)right 

Apollo's son. 
" Undo his helmet ! cut the lace ! pour w^ater on his 

head 1" 

" [t ain't no use at all, my lord ; 'cos vy ? the covey 's 

dead !" 

6 



122 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Above him stood the Rydal bard — his face was full of 

wo — 
" Now there thou liest, stiff and stark, who never feared 

a foe : 
A braver knight, or more renowned in tourney and in 

hall. 
Ne'er brought the upper gallery down, than terrible 

Fitzball !" 

They led our Wordsworth to the Queen — she crowned 
him with the bays. 

And wished him many happy years, and many quarter- 
days,— 

And if you 'd have the story told by abler lips than 
mine, 

You 've but to call at Rydal Mount, and tast^ the 
Laureate's wine ! 



! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I'^S 



€^t llnttnl Untujurt. 



BV THE HON. G- 



The Queen, she kept high festival in Windsor's lordly 

hall, 
And round her sat the gartered knights, and erminci] 

nobles all ; 
There drank the valiant Wellington, there fed the wary 

Peel, 
And at the bottom of the board, Prince Albert carved 

the veal. 

" What, pantler, ho ! remove the cloth ! Ho ! cellarer, 

the wine. 
And bid the royal nurse bring in the hope of Brmiswick's 

line!" 
Then rose, with one tumultuous shout, the band of 

British peers, 
" God bless her sacred Majesty ! Let 's see the little 

dears !" 



IVi4 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Now by Saint George, our patron saint, 't was a touch 

ing sight to see 
That iron warrior gently place the Princess on his 

knee ; 
To hear him hush her infant fears, and teach her how to 

gape 
With rosy .mouth expectant for the raisin and the 

grape ! 

They passed the wine, the sparkling wine — they filled 

the goblets up, 
Even Brougham, the cynic anchorite, smiled blandly on 

the cup ; 
A.nd Lyndhurst, with a noble thirst, that nothing could 

appease. 
Proposed the immortal memory of King William on his 

knees. 

" What want we here, my gracious liege," cried good 
Lord Aberdeen, 

"Save gladsome song and minstrelsy to flow our cups 
between 1 

I ask not now for Goulburn's voice or Knatchbull's 
warbling lay, 

But where 's the Poet Laureate to grace our board to- 
day?" 

Loud laughed the Knight of Netherby, and scornfully he 

cried, 
" Or art thou mad with wine, Lord Earl, or art thyself 

beside ? 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 125 

Eight hundred Bedlam bards have claimed the Laureate's 
vacant crown, 

x\nd now like frantic Bacchanals run wild through Lon- 
don town !" 

" Now glory to our gracious Queen !" a voice was heard 
to cry, 

And dark Macaulay stood before them all with frenzied 
eye; 

" Now glory to our gracious Queen, and all her glorious 
race, 

A boon, a boon, my sovran liege ! Give me the Lau- 
reate's place ! 

" 'T was I that sang the might of Rome, the glories of 

Navarre ; » 
And who could swell the fame so well of Britain's Isles 

afar? 
The hero of a hundred fights — " Then Wellington up 

sprung, 
" Ho, silence in the ranks, I say ! Sit down, and hold 

your tongue. 

" By heaven thou shalt not twist my name into a jingling 

iay, 
Or mimic in thy puny song the thunders of Assaye! 
'T is hard that for thy lust of place in peace we cannot 

dine. 
Nurse, take her Royal Highness here ! Sir Robet, pass- 

the wine !" 



126 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Nc laureate need we at our board !" then spoke the 

Lord of Vaux ; 
" Here 's many a voice to charm the ear with minstrel 

song, I know. 
Even I, myself — " Then rose the cry — " A song, a song 

from Brougham !" 
He sang, — and straightway found himself alone within 

the room. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 1*47 



€)^ aJnri nf dEriu's tmul 



BY T M RE, ESQ. 

Oh, weep for the hours when the little blind boy 

Wove round me the spells of his Paphian bower ; 
When I dipp'd my light wings in the nectar of joy, 

And soar'd in the sunshine, the moth of the hour ! 
From beauty to beauty, 1 pass'd like the wind ; 

Now fondled the lily, now toy'd with the rose ; 
And the fair, that at morn had enchanted my mind, 

Was forsook for another ere evening's close. 

I sighed not for honor, I cared not for fame, 

While Pleasure sat by me, and Love was my guest ; 
They twined a fresh wreath for each day as it came, 

And the bosom of beauty still pillowed my rest ; 
And the harp of my country — neglected it slept — 

In hall or by greenwood unheard were its songs ; 
From Love's Syl' arite dreams I aroused me, and swept 

Its chord to the tale of her glories and wrongs. 



12^ THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

But weep for the hour! — Life's summer is past, 

And the snow of its winter lies cold on my brow; 
And my soul, as it shrinks from each stroke of the blast. 

Cannot turn to a fire that glows inwardly now. 
No, its ashes are dead — and, alas ! Love or Song 

No charm to Life's lengthening shadows can lend, 
[iike a cup of old wine, rich, mellow, and strong, 

And a seat by the fire tete-a-tete with a friend. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. V-^'' 



€1r laittBah, 



Who would not be 

The Laureate bold 
With his butt of sherry 
To keep him merry, 
And nothing to do but to pocket his gold 

'Tis I would be the Laureate bold ! 
When the days are hot, and the sun is strong, 
T 'd lounge in the gateway all the day long. 
With her Majesty's footmen in crimson and gold. 
1 'd care not a pin for the waiting-lord ; 
But 1 'd lie on my back on the smooth green sward, 
With a straw in my mouth, and an open vest, 
And the cool wind blowing upon ray breast, 
And 1 'd vacantly stare at the clear blue sky, 
And watch the clouds as listless as I, 
Lazily, lazily! 



130 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

And 1 'd pick the moss and daisies white, 

And chew their stalks with a nibbling bite : 

And I 'd let my fancies roam abroad 

In search of a hint for a birth-day ode, 
Crazily, crazily ! 
Oh, that would be the life for me. 
With plenty to get and nothing to do, 
But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, 
And whistle all day to the Queen's cockatoo, 

Trance-somely, trance-somely. 
Then the chambermaids, that clean the rooms, 
Would come to the windows and rest on their brooms, 
With their saucy caps, and their crisped hair, 
And they 'd toss their heads in the fragrant air. 
And say to each other — " Just look down there. 
At the nice young man, so tidy and small. 
Who is paid for writing on nothing at all, 
Handsomely, handsomely !" 

They would pelt me with matches and sweet pastilles, 
And crumpled up balls of the royal bills. 
Giggling and laughing, and screaming with fun, 
As they 'd see me start, with a leap and a run. 
From the broad of my b^ck to the point of my toes, 
When a pellet of paper hi: my nose, 

Teazingly, sneezingly. 
Then I 'd fling them bunches of garden flowers, 
And hyacinths plucked from the Castle bowers ; 
. And I 'd challeng*^ them all to come down to me, 
And 1 'd kiss then -ill till they kissed me. 

Laughingly, laughingly. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 1551 

Oh, would r.ot that be a merry life, 
Apart from care, and apart from strife, 
With the Laureate's wine, and the Laureate's pay, 
And no deductions at quarter-day ? 
Oh, that would be the post for me ! 
With plenty to get and nothing to do 
But to deck a pet poodle with ribbons of blue, 
And whistle a tune to the Queen's cockatoo. 
And scribble of verses remarkably few. 
And at evening empty a bottle or two, 
Quaffingly, quaffingly ! 

'T is I would be 

The Laureate bold, 
With my butt of sherry 
To keep me merry, 
And nothing to do but to pocket my gold ! 



132 THE BOOK OF BALLADS 



a 3Kftniglit HtMtotinn. 



Fill me once more the foaming pewter up ! 

Another board of oysters, ladye mine ! 
To-night Lucullus with himself shall sup. 

These mute inglorious Miltons are divine ; 

And as I here in slippered ease recline, 
Quaffing of Perkins' Entire my fill, 
I sigh not for the lymph of Aganippe's rill. 

A nobler inspiration fires my brain, 

Caught from Old England's fine time-hallowed drink ; 

I snatch the pot again and yet again, 

And as the foaming fluids shrink and shrink, 
Fill me once more, I say, up to the brmk ! 

This makes strong hearts — strong heads attest its charm- - 

This nerves the might that sleeps in Britain's brawn}/ 
arm ! 

But these remarks are neither here nor there. 

Where was 1 1 Oh, I see — old Southey 's dead ! 
They '11 want some bard to fill the vacant chair, 

And drain the annual butt — and oh, what head 

More fit with laurel to be garland ec" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. I r>3 

Than this, which, curled in many a fragrant coil, 
Breathes of Castalia's streams, and best Macassar oil 1 

I know a grace is seated on my brow, 

Like young Apollo's with his golden beams ; 

There should Apollo's bays be budding now : 
And in my flashing eyes the radiance beams 
That marks the poet in his waking dreams. 

When as his fancies cluster thick and thicker, 

He feels the trance' divine of poesy and liquor. 

They throng around me now, those things of air, 
That from my ftmcy took their being's stamp : 

There Pelham sits and twirls his glossy hair, 
There Cliflbrd leads his pals upon the tramp ; 
Their pale Zanoni, bending o'er his lamp. 

Roams through the starry wilderness of thought. 

Where all is everything, and everything is nought. 

Yes, I am he, who sung how Aram won 

The gentle ear of pensive Madeline ! 
How love and murder hand in hand may run. 

Cemented by philosophy serene. 

And kisses bless the spot where gore has becji ! 
Who breathed the melting sentiment of crime. 
And for the assassin waked a sympathy sublime ! 

Yes, I am he, who on the novel shed 
Obscure philosophy's enchanting light ! 

Until the. public, wildered as they read. 

Believed they saw that which was not in sight — 
Of course 't was not for me to set them right; 



134 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

For in my nether heart convinced I am, 
Philosophy 's as good as any other bam. 

Novels three-volumed I shall write no more — 
Somehow or other now they will not sell ; 

And to invent new passions is a bore — 
I find the Magazines pay quite as well. 
Translating 's simple, too, as I can tell, 

W>ho 've hawked at Schiller on his lyric throne, 

And given the astonished bard a meaning all my uvvn. 

Moore, Campbell, Wordsworth, their best days are 
grassed ; 
Battered and broken are their early lyres. 
Rogers, a pleasant memory of the past. 

Warmed. his young hands at Smithfield's martyr fires, 
And, worth a plum, nor bays, nor butt desires. 
But these are things would suit me to the letter, 
For though this Stout is good, old Sherry 's greatly 
better. 

A fico for your small poetic ravers, 

Your Hunts, your Tennysons, your Milnes, and these ! 

Shall they compete with him who wrote " Maltravers,'^ 
Prologue to " Alice or the Mysteries f 
No ! Even now, my glance prophetic sees 

My own high brow girt with the bays about. 

What ho, within there, ho ! another pint of Stout ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 135 



3ilniitgnniprn. 



A POEM. 



Like one w'lio, waking from a troublous dream, 

Pursues with force his meditative theme ; 

Calm as the ocean in its halcyon still, 

Calm as the sunlight sleeping on the hill : 

Calm as at Ephesus great Paul was seen 

To rend his robes in agonies serene ; 

Calm as the love that radiant Luther bore 

To all that lived behind him, and before; 

Calm as meek Calvin, when, with holy smile, 

He sang the mass around Servetus' pile, — 

So once again I snatch this harp of mine, 

To breathe rich incense from a mystic shrine. 

Not now to whisper to the ambient air 

The sound of Satan's Universal Prayer ; 

Not now to sing in sweet domestic strife 

That woman reigns the Angel of our life; 

But to proclaim the wish, with pious art. 

Which thrills through Britain's universal heart, — 

That on this brow, with native honors graced, 

The Laureate's chaplet should at length be placed ! 



I no THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Fear not, ye maids, who love to hear me speak ; 
Let no desponding tears ]>edim 3'our cheek ! 
No gust of envy, no malicious scorn, 
Hath this poor heart of mine with frenzy torn. 
There are who move so far above the great. 
Their very look disarms the glance of hate ; 
Their thoughts, more rich than emerald or gold, 
Enwrap them like the prophet's mantle's fold. 
Fear not for me, nor think that this our age, 
Blind though it be, hath yet no Archimage. 
I, who nave bathed in bright Castalia's tide, 
By classic Isis and more classic Clyde ; 
I, who have handled in my lofty strain, 
All things divine, and many things profane ; 
I, who have trod where seraphs fear to tread ; 
I, who on mountain — honey dew have fed; 
I, who undaunted broke the mystic seal, 
And left no page for prophets to reveal ; 
I, who in shade portentous Dante threw ; 
I, who have done what Milton dared not do, — 
I fear no rival for the vacant throne ; 
No mortal thunder shall eclipse my own ! 

Let dark Macaulay chaunt his Roman lays. 
Let Monckton Milnes go mounder for the bays, 
Let Simmons call on great Napoleon's shade, 
Let Lytton Bulwer seek his Aram's aid. 
Let Wordsworth ask for help from Peter Bell, 
Let Camp1)ell carol Copenhagen's knell, 
Let Delta warble through liis Delphic groves, 
Let Pvlliot shout for pork and penny loaves, — 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 137 

I caie not, I! resolved to stand or fall ; 
One down, another on, I '11 smash them all ! 

Back, ye profane ! this hand alone hath power 
To pluck the laurel from its sacred bower ; 
This brow alone is privileged to weai 
The ancient wreath o'er hyacinthine hair ; 
These lips alone may quaff the sparkling wine, 
And make its mortal juice once more divine. 
Back, ye profane ! And thou, fair queen, rejoice: 
A nation's praise shall consecrate thy choice. 
Thus, then, I kneel where Spencer knelt before, 
On the same spot perchance, of Windsor's floor ; 
And take, while awe-struck millions round me stand, 
The hallowed wreath from s;reat Victoria's hand. 



138 THE ROOK OF BALLADS. 



(KljB BBEtli nf Ipart 



[Wht has Satan's own Laureate never given to the world his mar- 
vellous threnody ou "The Death of Space ?" Who knows where 
the hays might have fallen, had he forwarded that mystic manuscript 
to the Home Office ? If unwonted motlesty withholds it from the 
public eye, the public will pardon thp boldne^^s that tears from blush- 
ing obscurity the following fragments of this unique poem.J 

Eternity shall raise her funeral pile 

In the vast dungeon of the extinguish'd sky, 

And, clothed in dim barbaric splendor, smile. 
And murmur shouts of elegiac joy. 

While those that dwell beyond the realms of space, 

And those that people all that dreary void. 

When old Time's endless heir hath run his race, 

Shall live for aye, enjoying and enjoy'd. 

And 'mid the agony of unsullied bliss, 

Her Demogorgon's doom shall Sin bewail. 

The undying serpent at the spheres shall hiss, 
And lash the empyrean with his tail. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. l^y 

And Hell, inflated with supernal wrath, 
Shall open wide her thunder-bolted jaws, 

And shout into the dull cold ear of Death, 
That he must pay his debt to Nature's laws. 

And when the King of Terrors breathes his last, 

Infinity shall creep into her shell. 
Cause and effect shall from their thrones be cast, 

And end their strife with suicidal yell. 

While from their ashes, burnt with pomp of Kings 
'Mid incense floating to the evanished skies, 

Nonentity, on circumambient wino-s 
An everlasting Pha'nix ^h.iil ai-ise. 



f40 . THE BOOK OF BALLADS- 



littk 3d1ie nni tijt EA /rmt 

A LAY OF SHERWOOD. 
FYTTE THE FIRST. 

'Ihe deer may leap within the glade ; 

The fawns may follow free — 
For Robin is dead, and his bones are laid 

Beneath the greenwood tree. 

And broken are his merry, merry men, 

That goodlie companie ; 
There 's some have ta'en thi. h . rthern road 

With Jem of Netherbee. 

The best and bravest of the band 

With Derby Ned are gone; 
But Earlie Gray and Charlie Wood, 

They staid with Little John. 

Now Little John was an outlaw proud, 

A prouder ye never saw ; 
Throilgh Nottingham and Leicester shires 

He thought his word was law, 
And he strutted through the greenwood wide 

Like a pestilent jack-daw. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 141 

He swore that none, but with leave of him, 

Should set foot on the turf so free • 
And he thought to spread his cutter's rule, 

All over the south countrie. 
" There 's never a knave in the land," he said, 

" But shall pay his toll to me !" 

And Charlie Wood was a taxman good 

As ever stepped the ground. 
He levied mail, like a sturdy thief. 

From all the yeomen round. 
" Nay, stand !" quoth he, " thou shalt pay to me, 

Seven pence from every pound !" 

Now word has come to Little John, 

As he lay upon the grass, 
That a friar red was in merry Sherwood 

Without his leave to pass. 

" Come hither, come hither, my little foot-page ! 

Ben Hawes, come tell to me, 
What manner of man is this burly frere 

Who walks the wood so free !" 

" My master good !" the little page said, 

" His name T wot not well. 
But he wears on his head a hat so red, 

With a monstrous scallop-shell. 

" He says he is Prior of CopmaDshiirsb, 

And Bishop of London town, 
And he comes with a rope from our father, tlie Pope 

To put the outlaws down. 



142 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" I saw him ride but yester-tide 
With his jolly chaplains three; 

And he swears that he has an open pass 
From Jem of Netherbee !" 



Little John has ta'en an arrow so broad, 

And broke it o'er his knee ; 
" Now I may never strike doe again, 

But this wrong avenged shall be ! 

" And has he dared, this greasy frere, 

To trespass in my bound, 
Nor asked for leave from Little John 

To range with hawk and hound? 

" And has he dared to take a pass 

From Jem of Netherbee, 
Forgetting that the Sherwood shaws 

Pertain of i-ight to me 1 

" O were he but a simple man 

And not a slip-shod fi ^re ! 
I 'd hang him up by his own waist-rope 

Above yon tangled brere. 

*' O did he come alone tVom Jem 
And not from our father the Pope, 

1 'd bring him in to Copmanshurst. 
With the noose of a hempen rope ! 



TnE BOOK OF BALLADS. 113 

" But since he has come from our father the Pope, 

And sailed across the sea, 
And since he has power to bind and loose, 

His life is safe for me ; 
But a heavy penance he shall do 

Beneath the greenwood tree !" 

" O tarry yet," quoth Charlie Wood, 

'' O tarry, master mine ! 
It 's ill to shear a yearling hog. 

Or twist the wool of swine ! 

" It 's ill to make a bonny silk purse 

From the ear of a bristly boar ; 
It 's ill to provoke a shaveling's curse, 

When the way lies him before. 

" I 've walked the forest for twenty years, 

In weather wet and dry. 
And never stopped a good fellawe 

Who had no coin to buy. 



" What boots it to search a beggarman's bag? 

When no silver groat he has ? 
So, master mine, I rede you well, 

E'en let the Friar pass !" 

" Now cease thy prate," quoth Little John, ' 

" Thou japest but in vain ; 
An he have not a groat within his pouch 

We may find a silver chain. 



141_ THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" I>nt were he as bare as a new-flayed buck, 

As truly he may be, 
He shall not tread the Sherwood shaws 

Without the leave of me !" 

" Little John has taken his arrows and bow, 
His sword and buckler strong, 

And lifted up his quarter-staff, 
Was full three cloth yards long 

And he has left his merry men 

At the trysting-tree behind. 
And gone into the gay greenwood. 

This burly frere to find. 

O'er holt and hill, thro' brake and brere 

He took his way alone — 
Now, Lordlings, list and you shall hear 

This geste of Little John. 



PYTTE THE SECOND. 

'T h :iierry, 't is merry in gay greenwood, 
When the little birds are singing, 

When the buck is belling in the fern 

And the hare from the thicket springing] 

'T is merry to hear the waters e'ear 
As they splash in the pebbly fall ; 

And the ouzel whistling to his mate 
As he lights on the stones so small. 



THE BOOK OF EA.LLA.DS. 14; 

But small plerisaunce took little John 

In all he heard and saw ; 
Till hf> reached the cave of a hermit old 

Who wonned within the shaw. 

" Ora pro nobis /" quoth Little John — 

His Latin v.as somewhat rude — 
" Now, holy Father, hast thou seen 

A frere within the wood 1 

" By his scarlet hose, and his ruddy nost. 

I guess you may know him well; 
And he wears on his head a hat so red, 

And monstrous scallop shell." 

" I have served Saint Pancras," the hermit saidj 

" In this cell for thirty year. 
Yet never saw I, in the forest bounds, 

The face of such a frere ! 

" And if ye find him, master mine. 

E'en take an old man's advice, 
And j-acldle him well, till he roar aaairs 

Lest ye tail to meet him twice !'* 

••Trust me foi' that 1" (iiicih Little John — 

" Trust me foi that !" qrioth he with a laugh, 
''There never was man of wcman born, 

That ask'd twice for the taste of my quarter-staff'!'" 

7 



lie thp: book of ballads. 

Tlien Little John, he strutted on, 
'Till he came to an open bound, 

And he was aware ol a Red Friar 
Was sitting upon the ground. 

His shoulders they were broad and stror g, 
And large was he of limb : 

Few yeomen in the north countrie 
Would care to mell with him. 



He heard the rustling of the boughs, 
As Little John drew near ; 

But never a single word he 'jpoke, 
Of welcome or of cheer. 



I like not his looks ! thought Little John, 
Nor his staff of the oaken tree. 

Now may our Lady be my help, 
Else beaten I well may be ! 



" What dost thou here, thou strong Friar, 

In Sherwood's merry round, 
Without the leave of Little John, 

To range with hawk and hound 1" 

" iSmall thought have 1," quoth the Red Fiiar, 

"Of any leave, I trow. 
'A hat Little John is an outlawed thief^ 

And so, I ween, art thou ' 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 147 

'' Know, 1 ani Prior of Copmaiishurst, 

And Bishop of London town, 
And 1 bring a rope fi-orn our father the Pope, 

To put the outlaws down." 

Then out spoke Little John in wrath, 

"I tell thee, burly frere. 
The Pope may do as he likes at howie, 

But he sends no Bishops here ! 

"Up, and away. Red Friar!" he said, 

" Up, and away, right speedilie ; 
An it were not for that cowl of thine, 

Avenged on thy body I would be !" 

" Nay, heed not that," said the Red Friar, 
" And let my cowl no hindrance be ; 

I warrant that I can give as good 
As ever I think to take from thee !" 

Little John he raised his quarter-staff. 

And so did the burly priest, 
And they fought beneath the greenwood tree, 

A stricken hour at least. 

But Little John was weak of fence, 

And his strength began to fail. 
Whilst the Friar's blows came thundering down, 

Like the strokes of a threshing flail, 



118 THE BOOK IJF BALLADS. 

" Now, hold thy hand," thou stalwart Friar, 

"' Now rest beneath the thorn, 
Until I gather breath enow, 

For a blast at my bugle horn !" 

"I '11 hold my hand," the Friar said, 

" Since that is your propine. 
But, an you sound your bugle horn, 

I '11 even blow on mine I'' 

Little John he wound a blast so shrill 

That it rung o'er rock and linn, 
And Charlie Wood and his merry men all 

Came lightly bounding in. 

The Friar he wound a blast so strong 
That it shook both bush and tree, 

And to his side came Witless Will 
And Jem of Netherbee ; 

With all the worst of Robin's band. 
And many a Rapparee ! 

Liltle John he wist not what to do. 

When he saw the others come ; 
So he twisted his quarter-staff between 

His fingers and his thumb. 

"There 's some mistake, good Friar !" he said, 
"There 's some mistake 'twixt thee and me; 

I know thou art Prior of Copmanshurst, 
But not beneath the greenwood tree. 



THE BOOK OF EALLALS. 

"And if jK^u. will take some other name, 
You shall have ample leave to bide ; 

With pai-.tiire also for your Bulls, 

And power to range tho forest wide." 

"Thf^re 'b nj mistake''' the Friar said, 
•' I '11 call myself j ist what 1 please. 

My doctrine is that chalk is chalk, 
And cheese is nothki^ else than cneese *' 

"So be it then ! ' quoth Little John ; 

"But surely you will not object, 
If I and all my ine.-ry men 

Should treat you with reserved respect 'f 

' We can't call you Prior of Copmanshursl, 

Nor Bishop of London town, 
'.^or on the grass, cs you chance to pass, 

Can we very well kneel down. 

-' But you '11 send the Pope my compliments, 

And say, as a further hint, 
That, within the Sherwood bounds, you s>aw 
Little John, who is the son-in law 

Of his friend, old Mat-o'-the-Mint i'' 

So ends this geste of Little John — 

God save our noble Queen ! 
But, Lordlings, say — is Sherwood now 

What Sherwood once hath been ? 



149 



150 . THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€i)t EjiumB Bf lit InnntBlnt lingU, 



A LEGEND OF GLASC^OW. 



BY MRS. E H- 



JC 



There 's a pleasant place of rest, near a City of tl 
West, 
Where its bravest and- its best find their grave. 
Below the willows weep, and their hoary branches steep 
In the waters still and deep. 

Not a wave ! 

And the old Cathedral Wall, so scathed, and gray, and 
taJl. 
Like a priest surveying all, stands beyond. 
And the ringing of its bell, when the ringers ring it well. 
Makes a kind of tidal swell 

On the pond ! 

.\nd there it was I lay, on a beauteous summer's day, 

With the odor of the hay floating by ; 
Vnd I heard the blackbirds sing, and the bells demureljc 
ring, 
' 'hime by chime, ting by ting, 

Droppingly. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 151 

Then my thoughts went wandering back on a very 
beaten track 
To the confine deep and black of the tomb, 
And 1 wondered who he was, that is laid beneath the 
grass. 
Where the dandelion has 

Such a bloom. 



Then I straightway did espy, with my slantly sloping 
eye, 
A carved stone hard by, somewhat worn; 
And I read in letters cold — ?i^crc.l2es.3Launcelot.se.boHic, 
©ff.ge.race.off.iSoflilc.olli, 

^lasfloto.torne. 



3[l5c.toals.anf.bair'aunt.ttnDcf)tr.Tnatst.t€rritlc.in.f2ct)te. . . 

Here the letters failed outright, but I knew 
That a stout crusading; lord, who had crossed the Jordan's 
ford. 
Lay there beneath the sward, 

VYet with dew. 



Tim_e and tide they passed away, on that pleasant sum 

mer's day. 
And around me ns I lay, all giew old : 
Sank the ohimneya from the town, and the clouds of 

vaDor brown 



No iongc]-. like a crown, 



O'er It rolled. 



j 5") 'rriE BOOK o^ ballads. 

Sank the ^veai Saint Roliux stalk, like a pile of dingy 
chalk 
Disappeared the cypress walk, and the flowers. 
And a donjon keep arose, that might baffle any foes, 
With its nien-at-ra-ms in rows. 

On its towers. 

And the flag that flaunted there, showed the grim and 
grizzly bear, 
Which the Bogles always wear for their crest. 
And I heard the warder call, as he stood upon the wall. 
" Wake ye up ! my comrades all. 

From your rest ! 

" For by the blessed rood, there 's a glimpse of armor good 
In the deep Cowcaddens wood, o'er the stream ; 

And I hear the stifled hum, of a multitude that come, 
Though they have not beat the drum 

It would seem ! 

"Go tell it to my Lord, lest he wish to man the ford 

With partizan and sword, just beneath ; 
Ho, Gilkison and Nares ! Ho, Provan of Cowlairs ! 

We '11 back the bonny bears 

To the death !" 

To the tower above the moat, like one who heedeth not. 

Came the bold Sir Launcelot, half undressed ; 
On the outer rim he stood, and peered into the wood, 

With his arms across him glued 

On his breast. 



THE BOOR OF BALLADS. 153 

And he nmttered "Foe accurst! bus thou daied to seek 
ine first? 
George of GorLals, do thy worst — for J swear, 
O'er tiiy gory corpse to ride, ere thy sister and my 
Ijride, 
From my undesevered side, 

Thou shalt tear ! 

" Ho ! herald mine, Brownlee ! ride forth, I pray and 
see. 
Who, what, and whence is he, foe or friend ! 
Sir Roderick Dalgleish, and my foster-brother Neish 
With his bloodhounds in the leash. 

Shall attend." 

Forth went the herald stout, o'er the drawbridge and 
without, 
Then a wild and savage shout rose amain, 
Six arrows sped their force, and, a pale and bleeding 
corse. 
He sank from off his horse 

On the plain ! 

Back drew the bold Dalgleish, back started stalwart 
Neish, 
With his bloodhounds in the leash, from Brownlee. 
"Now shame be to the sword that made thee knight 
and lord. 
Thou caitiff thrice abhorred. 

Shame on thee ! 



li)i THE BUOK^OF BALLADS. 

"Ho, jowmen, bend your bows! Discharge upon th*^ 
foes, 
i'or.hwith no end of those heavy bolts. 
Three angels to the brave who finds the foe a grave, 
And a gallows for the slave 

Who revolts !" 



Ten days the conibat lasted ; but the bold defenders 
fasted, 
While the foemen, better pastied, fed their host ; 
You might hear the savage cheers of the hungry Gorbar 
Hers, 
As at night they dressed the steers 

For the roast. 



And Sir Launcelot grew thin, and Provan's double chin 
Showed sundry folds of skin down beneath ; 

In silence and in grief found Gilkison relief, 
Nor did Neish the spellword, beef, 

Dare to breathe. 



To the ramparts Edith came, that fair and youthful 
dame, 
With the rosy evening flame on her face. 
She sighed, and looked around on the solu-ers on the 
ground, 
Who but little penance found. 

Saying grace ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 155 

And she said unto her lord, as he leaned upon his 
sword, 
" One short and little wo)d may I speak ? 
I cannoo bear to w'lew those eyes so ghastly blue, 
Or mark the sallow hue 

Of thy cheek ! 



•' I know the rage and wrath that my furious .brothei 
hath 
Is less against us both than at me. 
Then, dearest, let me go, to find among the foe 
An arrow from the bow, 

Like Brownlee !" 



"I would soil my father's name, I would lose my trea- 
sured fame, 
Ladye mine, should such a shame on me light : 
While I wear a belted brand, together still we 
stand. 
Heart to heart, hand to hand !" 

Said the knight. 



" All our chances are not lost, as your brother and his 
host 
Shall discover to their cost rather hard ! 
Ho, Provan ! take this key — hoist up the Malvoisie, 
And heap it, d' ye see, 

In the yard. 



156 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Of usquebaugh and rum, you will find I reckon 
some, 
Besides the beei* and nmm, extra stout ; 
Go straightway to your tasks, and roll me all the 
casks*, 
As also range the flasks, 

Just without. 

" If I know the Gorbaliers, they are sure to dip their 
ears 
In the very inmost tiers of the drink. 
Let them wm the outer-court, and hold it for their sport, 
Since their time is rather short, 

I should think !" 

With a loud triumphant yell, as the heavy drawbridge 
fell, 
Rushed the Gorbaliers pell-mell, wild as Druids ; 
Mad with thirst for human gore, how they threatened 
and they swore, 
Till they stumbled or the floor, 

O'er the fluids ! 

Down their weapons then they threv/, and each savage 
soldier drew 
From his belt an iron screw, In his list : 
George of Gorbcils found it vain their excitement to 
restrain, 
And indeed was rather fain 

To assist. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 157 

With a beaker in his hand, in the midst he took his 
stand, 
And silence did command all below — 
" Ho ! Launcelot the bold, ere thy lips are icy cold, 
In the centre of thy hold. 

Pledge me now ! 



" Art surly, brother mine ? In this cup of rosy 
wine, 
I drink to the decline of thy race ! 
Thy proud career is done, thy sand is nearly run. 
Never more shall setting sun 

Gild thy face ! 



' The pilgrim in amaze, shall see a goodly blaze, 

Ere the pallid morning rays flicker up, 
^nd perchance he may espy certain corpses swinging 
high ! 
What, brother ! art thou dry 1 

Fill my cup !" 



Dumb as death stood Launcelot, as though he heartl 
him not, 
But his bosom Provan smote, and he swore : 
And Sir Roderick Dalgleish, remarked aside to 
Neish, 
" Never sure did thirsty fish 

Swallow more !" 



158 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

"Thirty casks are nearly done, yet the revel 's scarce 
begun, 
It were knightly sport and fun to strike in !" 
^'Nay, tarry till they come," quoth Neish, "unto the 
rum — 
They are working at the mum, 

And the gin !" 

Then straight there did appesT to each gallant Gorbalier 

Twenty castles dancing near, all around. 
The solid earth did shake, and the stones beneath them 
quake, 
And sinuous as a snake 

Moved the ground. 

Why and wherefore they had come, seemed intricate to 
some, 
But all agreed the rum was divine. 
And they looked with bitter scorn on their leader highly 
born. 
Who preferred to fill his horn 

Up with wine ! 

Then said Launcelot the tall, " Bring the chargers from 
their stall ; 
Lead them straight unto the hall, down below : 
Draw your weapons from your side, fling the gates 
asunder wide, 
And together we shall ride 

On the foe !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 159 

Then Piovan knew full well, as he leaped into his 
selle, 
That few would 'scape to tell how they fared, 
And Gilkison and Nares, both mounted on their mares, 
Looked terrible as bears, 

All prepared. 

With his bloodhounds in the leash, stood the iron-sinew- 
ed Neish, 
And the falchion of Dalgleish glittered bright — 
" Now, wake the trumpet's blast ; and, comrades, follow 
flist; 
Smite them down unto the last !" 

Cried the knight. 

In the cumbered yard without, there was shriek, and 
yell, and shout, 
As the warriors wheeled about, all in mail. 
On the miserable kerne, fell the death-strokes suitT and 
stern, 
As the deer treads down the fern, 

In the vale ! 

Saint Mungo be my guide ! It was goodly in that 
tide 
To see the Bogle ride* in his haste ; 
He accompanied each blow, with a cry of " Ha !" or 
"Ho!" 
And always cleft the foe 

To the waist. 



16x; THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

"George of Gorbais — craven lord ! thou didst threat me 
with the cord, 
Come forth and brave my sword, if you dare !*' 
But he met with no reply, and never could descry 
The glitter of his eye 

Anywhere. 



Ere the dawn of morning shone, all the Gorbaliers were 
down, 
Like a field of barley mown In the ear : 
ft had done a soldier good, to see how Pro van stood, 
With Neish all bathed in blood. 

Panting near. 



" Now ply ye to your tasks — go carry down those 
casks, 
And place the empty flasks on the floor. 
George of Gorbais scarce will come, with trumpet and 
with drum. 
To taste our beer and rum 

Any more ! 



So they plied them to tVeir tasks, and they carried down 
the casks. 
And replaced the empty flasks on the floor; 
But pallid for a week was the cellar master's cheek, 
For he swore he heard a shriek 

Through the door. 



THE BOOK Of BALLADS. 101 

When the merry Christmas came, and the Yule-log lent 
its flame 
To the face of squire and dame in the hall, 
The cellarer went down to tap October brown, 
Which was rather of renown 

'Mongst them all. 

He placed the spigot low, and gave the cask a blow. 

But his liquor would not flow through the pin. 
"Sure, 't is sweet as honeysuckles!" so he rapped it 
with his knuckles. 
But a sound as if of buckles, 

Clashed within. 

"Bring a hatchet, varlets, here!" and they cleft the 
cask of beer ; 
What a spectacle of fear met their sight ! 
There George of Gorbals lay, skull and bones all blanched 
and grey. 
In the arms he bore the day 

Of the fight ! 

1 have sung this ancient tale, not, I trust, without avail, 
Though the moral ye may fail to perceive. 

Sir Launcelot is dust, and his gallant sword is rust, 
And now, I think, I must 

Take my leave ! 



162 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



[Am — " The days we went a gipsying."] 

I WOULD all womankind were dead, 

Or banished o'er the sea ; 
For they have been a bitter plague 

These last six weeks to me : 
It is not that I 'm touched myselfj 

For that I do not fear ; 
No female face hath shown me grace 
For many a bygone year. 

But 't is the most infernal bore, 

Of all the bores I know, 
To have a friend who 's lost his heart 
A short time ago. 

Whene'er we steam it to Black wall, 

Or down to Greenwich run, 
To quaff the pleasant cider cup, 

And feed on fish and fun ; 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 103 

Or climb the slopes of Richmond Hill, 

To catch a breath of air : 
Then, for my sins, he straight begins 
To rave about his fair. 

Oh, 't is the most tremendous bore, 

Of all the bores I know. 
To have a friend who 's lost his heat t 
A short time ago. 

In vain you pour into his ear 
Your own confiding grief; 
In vain you claim his sympathy, 

In vain you ask relief; 
In vain you try to rouse him by 

Joke, repartee, or quiz ; 
His sole reply 's a burning sigK 
And " What a mind it is !" 

O Lord ! it is the greatest bore, 

Of all the bores I know, 
To have a friend who 's lost his heart 
A short time ago. 

I've heard her thoroughly described 

A hundred times, 1 'm sure ; 
And all the while I 've tried to smile, 

And patiently endure ; 
He waxes strong upon his pangs. 

And potters o'er his grog ; 
And still I say, in a playful way — 

* Why you 're a lucky dog !" 



|t)4 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

But oh ! it is the heaviest bore, 
Of all the bores I know, 

To have a friend who's lost his heart 
A short time ago. 

I really wish he'd do like me 

When 1 was young and strong ; 
I formed a passion every week, 

But never kept it long. 
But he has not the sportive mood 

That always rescued me, 
And so I would all women could 
Be banished o'er the sea. 

For 't is the most egregious bore, 

Of all the bores I know, 
To have a friend who's lost his heart 
A short time ago, 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 1 (i5 



/rnurMn Da Eiminl 



TO BON GAULTIER. 



Argument, — An impassioned pupil of Leigh Hunt, having met Bon 
Gaultier at a Fancy Ball, declares the destructive cousequences 
thus.] 



Didst thou not praise me, Gaultier, at the ball. 
Ripe lips, trim boddice, and a waist so small, 
With clipsome lightness, dwindling ever less. 
Beneath the robe of pea-y greeniness ? 
Dost thou remember, when with stately prance, 
Our heads went crosswise in the country dailce ; 
How soft, warm fingers, tipp'd like buds of balm, 
Trembled within the squeezing of thy palm ; 
And how a cheek grew flush'd and peachy-wise 
At the frank lifting of thy cordial eyes ? 
Ah, me ' that night there was one gentle thing, 
Who like a dove, with its scarce-feather'd wing, 
Flutter'd at the approach of thy quaint swaggering ! 



166 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

There's wont to l)e, at conscious times like these, 
An affectation of a bright-eyed ease, — 
A crispy-cheekiness, if so 1 dare 
Describe the swaling of a jaunty air ; 
And thus, when swirling from the waltz's wheel, 
You craved my hand to grace the next quadrille, 
That smiling voice, although it made me start, 
Boil'd in the meek o'erlifting of my heart ; 
And, picking at my flowers, I said with free 
And usual tone, " Oh yes, sir, certainly !" 

Like one that swoons, 'twixt sweet amaze and fear, 

I heard the music burning in my ear. 

And felt I eared not, so thou wert with me. 

If Gurth or Wamba were our vis-a-vis. 

So, when a tall Knight Templar ringing came, 

x\nd took his place against us with his dame, 

I neither turned away, nor bashful shrunk 

From the stern survey of the soldier-monk. 

Though rather more, than full three-quarters drunk 

But threading through the figure, first in rule, 

I paused to see thee plunge into La Poule. 

Ah, what a sight was that ? Not pruHent Mars, 

Pointing his toe through ten celestial bars — 

Not young Apollo, beamily array'd 

In tripsome guise for Juno's masquerade — 

Not smartest Hermes, with his pinion girth, 

Jerking with freaks and snatches down to earth, 

Look'd half so bold, so beautiful and strong. 

As thou when pranking thro' the glittericj^^ throng! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 167 

How the calm'd ladies looked with eyes of love 
On thy trim velvet doublet laced above ; 
The hem of gold, that, like a wavy river, 
Flowed down into thy back with glancing shiver ! 
So bare .was thy fine throat, and curls of black 
So lightsomely dropp'd on thy lordly back, 
So crisply swaled the feather in thy bonnet, 
So glanced thy thigh, and spanning palm upon it. 
That my weak soul took instant flight to thee. 
Lost in the fondest gush of that sweet witchery ! 

But when the dance was o'er, and arm in arm, 

(The full heart beating 'gainst the elbow warm,) 

We pass'd into the great refreshment hall, 

Where the heap'd cheese-cakes and the comfits small 

Lay, like a hive of sunbeams, brought to burn 

Around the margin of the negus urn ; 

When my poor quivering hand you finger'd twice, 

And, with enquiring accents, whisper'd " Ice, 

Water, or cream ?" I could no more dissemble. 

But dropp'd upon the couch all in a tremble. 

A swimming faintness misted o'er my brain. 

The corks seem'd starting fi-om the brisk champagne, 

The custards fell untouch'd upon the fljor. 

Thine eyes met mine. That night we danced no more ! 



168 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



A LEGEND OF THE BOSPHORUS. 

How beauteous is the star of night 

Within the eastern skies, 
Like the twinkling glance of the Toorkrnan's lance. 

Or the antelope's azure eyes ! 
A lamp of love in the heaven above, 
. That star is fondly streaming ; 
And the gay kiosk and the shadowy mos(|ue 

In the Golden Horn are gleaming. 
Young Leila sits in her jasmine bower, 

And she hears the bulbul sing. 
As it thrills its throat to the first full note, 

That anthems the flowery spring. 
She gazes still, as a maiden will. 

On that beauteous eastern star : 
Vou might see the throb of her bosom's sob 

Beneath. the white cymar! 

She thinks of him who is far away, — 

Her own brave Galiongee, — 
Where the billows foam and the breezes roam, 

On the "^^ild Carpathian sea. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

She thinks of the oath that bound them both 

Beside the stormy water ; 
And. the words of love, that in Athens' grove 

He spake to the Cadi's daughter. 

" My Selim !" thus the maiden said, 

" Though severed thus we be, 
By the raging deep and the mountains' steep, 

My soul still yearns to thee. 
Thy form so dear is mirror'd here 

In my heart's pellucid well, 
As the rose looks up to Phingari's orb, 

Or the moth to the gay gazelle. 

"I think of the time, when the Kaftan's crime 

Our love's young joys o'ertook. 
And thy name still floats in the plaintive notes 

Of my silver-toned chibouque. 
Thy hand is red with the blood it has shed. 

Thy soul it is heavy laden ; 
Yet come, my Giaour, to thy Leila's boWer ; 

Oh, come to thy Turkish maiden !" 

A light step trode on the dewy sod. 

And a voice was in her ear, 
And an arm embraced young Leila's waist — 

" Beloved ! I am here !" 
Like the phantom form that rules the storm, 

Appeared the pirate lover. 

And his fiery eye was like Zatanai, 

As he fondly bent above her. 
8 



100 



170 THE BOOB OF BALLADS. 

" Speak, Leila, speak ! for my light caique 

Rides proudly in yonder bay ; 
I have come from my rest to her I love best, 

To carry thee, love, away. 
The breast of thy lover shall shield thee, and cover 

My own jemscheed from harm ; 
Think'st thou I fear the dark vizier. 

Or the mufti's vengeful arm ? 

" Then droop not, love, nor turn away 

Fi'om this rude hand of mine !" 
And Leila looked in her lover's eyes, 

And murmured — " 1 am thine !" 
But a gloomy man with a yataghan 

Stole through the acacia blossoms. 
And the thrust he made with his gleaming blade 

Had pierced through both their bosoms. 

" There ! there ! thou cursed caitiff Giaour ! 

There, there, thou false one, lie !" 
Remorseless Hassan stands above. 

And he smiles to see them die. 
They sleep beneath the fresh green turf, 

The lover and the lady — 
And the maidens wail to hear the tale 

Of the daughter. of the Cadi! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 171 



cKnstBtu l^rrauit 



The minarets wave on the plain of Stamboul, 

And the breeze of the evening blows freshly and cool ; 

The voice of the musniid is heard from the west, 

And kaftan and kalpac have gone to their rest, 

The notes of the kislar re-echo no more, 

And the waves of Al Sirat fall light on the shore. 

Where art thou, my beauty ; where art thou, my bHde ? 

Oh, come and repose by the dragoman's side ! 

1 wait for thee still by the flowery tophaik — 

I have broken my Eblis for Zuleima's sake. 

But the heart that adores thee is faithful and true, 

Though it beats 'neath the folds of a Greek Allah-hu ! 

Oh, wake thee, my dearest ! the muftis are still. 

And the tschocadars sleep on the Franguestan hill ; 

No sullen aleikoum — no derveesh is here, 

And the mosques are all watching by lonely Kashmere! 

Oh, come in the gush of thy beauty so full, 

I have waited for thee, my adored attar-gul ! 



172 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

I see thee — I hear thee — thy antelope foot 
Treads lightly and soft on the velvet cheroot ; 
The jewelled amaun of thy zemzem is bare, 
And the folds of thy palampore wave in the air. 
Come, rest on the bosom that loves thee so well, 
My dove ! my phingari ! my gentle gazelle ! 

Nay, tremble not, dearest ! I feel thy heart throb, 
'Neath the sheltering shroud of thy snowy kiebaub 
Lo, there shines Muezzin, the beautiful star ! 
Thy lover is with thee, and danger afar: 
Say, is it the glance of the haughty vizier. 
Or the bark of the distant effendi, you fear ? 

Oh, swift fly the hours in the garden of bliss ! 
And sweeter than balm of Gehenna, thy kiss ! 
Wherever I wander — wherever I roam, 
My spirit flies back to its beautiful home : 
It dwells by the lake of the limpid Stamboul, 
With thee, my adored one ! my own attar-gul ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 173 



«ljB iBattf nf ittmiL 



ESQ. 



^ Methinks I see him already in the cart, sweeter and niore lovely 
than the nosegay in his hand ! 1 hear the crowd extolling his re- 
solution and intrepidity ! What volleys of sighs are sent from 
the windows of Holborn, that so comely a youth should be brought 
to disgrace I I see him at the tree ! the whole circle are in tears ! 
even butchers weep !" — Beggaji's Opera. 



A LIVING sea of eager human faces, 

A thousand bosoms, throbbing all as one, 

Walls, windows, balconies, all sorts of places. 
Holding their crowds of gazers to the sun : 
Through the hushed groups low buzzing murmurs run ; 

And on the air, with slow reluctant swell. 

Comes the dull funeral boom of old Sepulchre's bell. 

Oh, joy in London now ! in festal measure 
Be spent the evening of this festive day ! 

For thee is opening now a high-strung pleasure 
Now, even now, in yonder press-yard they 
Strike from his limbs the fetters loose away ! 

A little while, and he, the brave Duval, 

Will issue forth, serene, to glad and greet you all. 



174 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Why comes he not ? say, wherefore doth he tarry ?" 
Starts the enquiry loud from every tongue. 

" Surely," they cry, " that tedious Ordinary 

His tedious psalms must long ere this have sung, — 
Tedious to him that's waiting to be hung !" 

But hark ! old Newgate's doors fly wide apart. 

'' He comes, he comes !" A thrill shoots through each 
gazer's heart. 

Join'd in the stunning cry ten thousand voices. 
All Smithfield answered to the loud acclaim. 
" He comes, he comes !" and every breast rejoices, 
As down Snow Hi]l the shout tumultuous came, 
Bearing to Holborn's crowd the welcome fame. 
" He comes, he comes !" and each holds back his 

breath, — 
Some ribs are broke and some few scores are crush'd to 
death. • 

With step majestic to the cart advances 

The dauntless Claude, and springs into his seat. 

He feels that on him now are fix'd the glances 
Of many a Britain bold and maiden sweet, 
W hose hearts responsive to his glories beat. 

In him the honor of " The Road" is centred. 

And all the hei-o's fire into his bosom enter'd. 

His was the transport — his the exultation 

Of Rome's great generals, when from afar, 
Up to the Capitol, in the ovation, 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 175 

They bore with them in the triumphal car, 

Rich gold and gems, the spoils of foreign war. 
lo Triumphe! They forgot their clay. 
E'en so Duval who rode in glory on his way. 



His laced cravat, his kids of purest yellow, 
The many -tinted nosegay in his hand. 

His large black eyes, so fiery, yet so mellow. 
Like the old vintages of Spanish land. 
Locks clustering o'er a brow of high command, 

Subdue all hearts ; and, as up Holborn's steep 

Toils the slow car of death, e'en cruel butchers weep. 



He saw it, but he heeded not. His story. 
He knew, was graven on the page of Time. 

Tyburn to him was as a field of glory. 

Where he must stoop to death his head sublime, 
Hymn'd in full many an elegiac rhyme. 

He left his deeds behind him, and his name — 

For he, like Csesar, had lived long enough for fame. 

He quail'd not, save when, as he raised the chalice, — 
St. Giles's bowl, — filled with the mildest ale, 

Co pledge the crowd, on her — his beauteous Alice- 
His eye alighted, and his cheek grew pale. 
She, whose sweet breath was like the spicy gale. 

She, whom he fondly deem'd his own dear girl, 

Stood wn'th a tall iragoon, drinking long draughts of 
purl. 



176 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

He bit his lip — it quiver'd but a moment — 
Then pass'd his hand across his flashing brows : 

He could have spared so forcible a comment 
Upon the constancy of woman's vows. 
One short, sharp pang his hero-soul allows ; 

But in the bowl he drowned the stinging pain, 

And on his pilgrim-course went calmly forth again. 

A princely group of England's noble daughters 

Stood in a balcony suffused with grief, 
Diffusing fragrance round them, of strong waters, 

And waving many a snowy handkerchief. 

Then glow'd the prince of highwayman and thief I 
His soul was touched with a seraphic gleam : — 
That woman could be false was but a mocking dream. 

And now, his bright career of triumph ended. 
His chariot stood beneath the triple tree. 

The law's grim finisher to its boughs ascended. 
And fix'd the hempen bandages, while he 
Bow'd to the throng^ then bade the car go free. 

The car roll'd on, and left him dangling there 

Like famed Mahommed's tomb, uphung midway in air 

As droops the cup of the surcharged lily 
Beneath the buffets of the surly storm, 

Or the soft petals of the daffodilly. 
When Sirius is uncomfortably warm, 
So drooped his head upon his manly form, 

While floated in the breeze his tresses brown. 

He hung the stated time, and then they cut him down. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 177 

With soft and tender care the trainbands bore him, 
Just as they found him, nightcap, rope, and all, 

And placed this neat though plain inscription o'er him, 
Among the otomies in Surgeon's Hall : 
" These are the Bones of the renown'd Duval !" 

There still they tell us, from their glassy case, 

He was the last, the best of all that noble race ! 



178 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



tf k iirgB nf i]$t Mnkn. 



BT W E A , ESQ. 

Brothers, spare awhile your liquor, lay your final tum- 
bler down ; 
He has dropp'd — that star of honor — on the field of his 

renow n ! 
Raise the wail, but raise it softly, lowly bending on your 

knees, 
If you find it more convenient, you may hiccup if you 

please. 
Sons of Pantagruel, gently let your hip-hurraing sink. 
Be your manly accents clouded, half with sorrow, half 

wnth drink ! 
Lightly to the sofa pillow lift his head from oflfthe floor; 
See, how calm he sleeps, unconscious as the deadest nail 

in door ! 
Widely o'er the earth I've wander'd ; where the drink 

most freely flow'd, 
I have ever reel'd the foremost, foremost to the beaker 

strode. 



THE BOOK OF BALL vDS. 179 

Deep in shady Cider Cellars 1 have dreani'd o'er heavy- 
wet, 
By the fountains of Damascus I have quaff'd the ric) 

Sherbet, 
Regal Montepulciano drained beneath its native rock, 
On Johannis' sunny mountain frequent hiccup'd o'er my 

hock ; 
I have bathed in butts of Xeres deeper than did e'er 

Monsoon, 
Sangaree'd with bearded Tartars in the Mountains of the 

Moon ; 
In beer-swilling Copenhagen I have drunk your Danes- 
man blind, 
I have kept my feet in Jena, when each bursch to earth 

declined; 
Glass for glass, in fierce Jamaica, 1 havs shared the 

planter's rum. 
Drank with Highland dhuinie-wassels, till each gibbering 

Gael grew dumb ; 
But a stouter, bolder drinker — one that loved his liquor 

more — 
Never yet did I encounter than our friend upon the 

floor ! 
Yet the best of us are mortal, we to weakness all are heir, 
He has fallen, who rarely stagger'd — let the rest of us 

beware ! 
We shall leave him, as we found him, — lying where his 

manhood fell, 
'Mong the trophies of the revel, for he took his tipple 

well. 



180 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, 

Better 't were we loosed his neckcloth, laid his throat 

and bosom bare, 
Pulled his Hobies off, and turn'd his toes to taste the 

breezy air. 
Throw the sofa cover o'er him, dim the flaring of the 

gas, 
Calmly, calmly let him slumber, and, as by the bar we 



We shall bid that thoughtful waiter place beside him, 

near and handy. 
Large supplies of soda water, tumbler's bottomed well 

with brandy, 
So when waking, he shall drain them, with that deathless 

thirst of his, 
Clinging to the hand that smote him, like a good 'un a& 

he is! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 181 



§mt /rBtegnuto, 



When folks with headstrong passion blind. 

To play the fool make up their mind, 

They 're sure to come with phrases nice, 

And modest air, for your advice. 

But, as a truth unfailing make it, 

They ask, but never mean to take it. 

'T is not advice they want, in fact. 

But confirmation in their act. 

Now mark what did, in such a case, 

A worthy priest who knew the race. 

A dame more buxsome, blithe and free, 
Than Fredegonde you scarce would see. 
So smart her dress, so trim her shape. 
Ne'er hostess offer'd juice of grape. 
Could for her trade wish better sign ; 
Her looks gave flavor to her wine, 
And each guest feels it, as he sips, 
9mack of the ruby of her lips. 
A smile for all, a welcome glad, — 
A jovial coaxing way she had ; 



182 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

And, — what was more her fate than blame, — 

A nine months' widow M^as om* dame. 

But toil was hard, for trade was good, 

And gallants sometimes will be rude. 

" And what can a lone woman do ? 

The nights are long, and eerie too. 

Now, Guillot there 's a likely man. 

None better draws or taps a can ; 

He 's just the man, I think, to suit, 

If I could bring my courage to 't." 

With thoughts like these her mind is cross'd : 

The dame, they say, who doubts is lost. 

" But then the risk 1 I'll beg a slice 

Of Father Raulin's good advice." 

Prankt in her best, with looks demure, 
She seeks the priest ; and, to be sure, 
Asks if he thinks she ought to wed : 
" With such a business on my head. 
I 'm worried off my legs with care. 
And need some help to keep things square. 
[ 'v(i thought of Guillot, truth to tell ! 
He 's steady, knows his business well. 
What do you think?" When thus he met her 
' Oh, take him, dear, you can't do better !" 
' But then the danger, my good pastor, 
(f of the man I make the master. 
There is no trusting to these men." 
' Well, well, my dear, don't have him then!" 
" But help I must have, there 's the curse. 
I may go farther and fare worse." 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 183 

" Why, take him then !" " But if he should 

Turn out a thankless ne'er-do-good, — 

In drink and riot waste my all, 

And rout me out of house and hall V 

" Don't have him, then ! But I 've a plan 

To clear your doubts, if any can. 

The bells a peal are ringing, — hark ! 

Go straight, and what they tell you mark. 

If they say ' Yes !' wed, and be blest — 

[f ' No,' why — do as you think best." 

The bells rung out a triple bob : 
Oh, how our widow's heart did throb, 
As thus she heard their burden go, 
" Marry, mar-marry, mar-Guillot !" 
Bells were not then left to hang idle : 
A week, — and the rang for her bridal. 
But, woe the while, they might as well 
Have rung the poor dame's parting knell. 
The rosy dimples left her cheek, 
She ]ost her beauties plump and sleek; 
For Guillot oftener kicked than kiss'd 
And back'd his orders with his fist. 
Proving by deeds as well as words, 
That servants make the worst of lords. 

She seeks the priest, her ire to wreak, 
And speaks as angry women speak. 
With tiger looks, and bosom swelling, 
Cursing the hour she took his telling. 



184 THE BOOK OF BALLADS, 

To all, his calm reply was this, — 
" I fear you 've read the bells amiss. 
If they have led you wrong in aught, 
Your wish, not they, inspired the thought. 
Just go, and mark well what they say." 
Off trudged the dame upon her way. 
And sure enough their chime went so, — 
" Don't have that knave, that knave Guillot !" 

" Too true," she cried, " there 's not a doubt 
What could my ears have been about !" 
She had forgot, that, as fools think, 
The bell is ever sure to clink. 



THK BOOK OF BALLADS. 185 



€^t iBiitli nf 33limaBl 



[This and the six following poems are examples of that new achieve- 
ment of modern sons: — which, blending the ntile with the dulce, 
symbolizes at once the practical and spiritual characteristics of 
the ag«, — and is called familiarly " the puff poetical."] 



Died the Jew ? " The Hebrew died. 

On the pavement cold he lay, 
Around him closed the living tide ; 

The butcher's cad set down his tray : 
The pot-boy from the Dragon Green 

No longer for his pewter calls ; 
The Nereid rushes in between, 

Nor more her ' Fine live mackerel !' bawls." 

Died the Jew 1 " The Hebrew died. 

They raised him gently from the stone, 
They flung his coat and neckcloth wide — 

But linen had that Hebrew none. 
They raised the pile of hats that pressed 

His noble head, his locks of snow ; . 
But, ah, that head, upon his breast. 

Sank down with an expiring ' Clo !' " 



180 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Died the Jew "? " The Hebrew died, 
Struck with overwhelming qualms, 

From the flavor spreading wide 
Of some fine Virginia Hams. 

Would you know the fatal spot, 
Fatal to that child of sin ? 

These fine-flavored hams are bought 

At 50, BiSHOFSGATE WiTHIN f" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADH. 18* 



fm'5 Mt fills. 



'T WAS in the town of Lubeck 

A hundred years ago. 
An old man walk'd into the church 

With beard as white as snow ; 
Yet were his cheeks not wrinkled, 

Nor dim his eagle eye : 
There's many a knight that steps the street, 
Might wonder, should he chance to meet 

That man erect and high ! 

When silenced was the organ, 

And hush'd the vespers loud. 
The Sacristan approached the sire. 

And drew him from the crowd — 
" There's something in thy visage, 

On which I dare not look, 
And when I rang the passing bell, 
A tremor that I may not tell, 

My very vitals shook. 



188 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Who art thou, awful stranger 1 

Our ancient annals say, 
That twice two hundred years ago 

Another passed this way, 
Like thee in face and feature ; 

And, if the tale be true, 
'T is writ, that in this very yeai 
Again the stranger shall appear. 

Art thou the wandering Jew V 

" The wandering Jew, thou dotard !" 

The wondrous phantom cried — 
'T is several centuries ago 

Since that poor stripling died. 
He would not use my nostrums — 

See, shaveling, here they are ! 
These put to flight all human ills, 
These conquer death — unfailing pills, 

And I 'm the inventor, Parr !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 189 



€ari]uiE aui tljE augur. 



Gingerly is good King Tarquin shaving. 

Gently glides the razor o'er his chin, 
Near him stands a grim Haruspex raving, 
And with nasal whine he pitches in 
Church Extension hints, 
Till the monarch squints, 
Snicks his chin, and swears — a deadly sin ! 

" Jove confound thee, thou bare-legg'd impostor ! 

From my dressing-table get thee gone ! 
Dost thou think my flesh is double Glo'ster 1 
There again ! That cut was to the bone ! 
Get ye from my sight ; 
I '11 believe you 're right 
When my razor cuts the sharping hone !" 

Thus spoke Tarquin with a deal of dryness ; 

But the Augur, eager for his fees, 
Answered — " Try it, your Imperial Highness, 

Press a little harder, if you please. 



190 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

There ! the deed is done !" 
Through the solid stone 
Went the steel as glibly as through cheese. 

So the Augur toueh'd the tin of Tarquin, 

Who suspected some celestial aid : 
But he wronged the blameless Gods ; for hearken ! 
Ere the monarch's bet was rashly laid, 
With his seaching eye 
Did the priest espy 
RoDGERs' narrp engraved upon the blade. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADE. !l»I 



ITu 3ilnrt i'lrtlmr. 



NOT BY ALFRED TENNYSON. 



Slowly, as one who bears a mortal hurt, 
Through which the fountain of his life runs dr\, 
Crept good King Arthur down unto the lake. 
A roughening wind was bringing in the waves 
With cold, dull plash and plunging to the shore, 
And a great bank of clouds came sailing up 
Athwart the aspect of the gibbous moon, 
Leaving no glimpse save starlight, as he sank, 
With a short stagger, senseless on the stones. 

No man yet knows how long he lay in swound ; 
But long enough it was to let the rust 
Lick half the surface of his polished shield ; 
For it was made by far inferior hands 
Than forged his helm, his breastplate, and his greaves, 
Whereon no canker lighted, for they bore 
The magic stamp of Mechi's Silver Steel. 



IP2 THE ROOK OF RALLADS. 



SttpitBt iiiii ttjB 3nMnn lU. 



" Take away this clammy nectar !" 

Said the king of gods and men ; 
"Never at Olympus' table 

Let that trash be served again. 
Ho, Lyaeus, thou, the beery ! 

Quick — invent some other drink; 
Or, in a brace of shakes, thou standest 

On Cocytus' sulphury brink!" 

Terror shook the limbs of Bacchus, 

Paly grew his pimpled nose, 
And already in his rearward 

Felt he Jove's tremendous toes ; 
When a bright idea struck him — 

" Dash my tliyrsus ! I '11 be bail — 
For you never were in India — 

That you know not Hodgson's Ale !' 



TMR BOOK OF BALLADS. 

"Bring it!" quoth the Cloud-compeller 

And the wine-god brought the beer- 
" Port and Claret are like water 

To the noble stuff that's here !" 
And Saturnius drank and nodded, 

Winking with his lightning eyes ; 
And amidst the constellations 

Did the star of Hodgson rise ! 



\vd 




\9\ 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



€ljB fail nf tjiB 8nttkn[ SSrntlirrs. 

Coats at five-and-forty shillings ! trousers ten-and-six n 

pair ! 
Summer waistcoats, three a sovereign, light and comfort- 
able wear ! 
Taglionis, black or colored, Chesterfield and velveteen ! 
The old English shooting-jacket, — doeskins, such as ne'er 

were seen ! 
Army cloaks and riding-habits, Alberts at a trifling cost ! 
Do you want an annual contract ? Write to Doudney's 

by the post. 
DouDNEY Brothers! Doudney brothers! Not the 

men that drive the van, 
Plaster'd o'er with advertisements, heralding some paltry 

plan. 
How, by base mechanic measure, and by pinching of 

their backs. 
Slim attorneys' clerks may manage to retrieve their 

Income-tax : 
But the old established business' — 'v\'iiere the best oi 

clothes are given 
At the very lowest prices — Fleet-street, Number Ninety- 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 195 

Would'st thou know the works of Doudnet ? Hie thee 

to the thronged Arcade, 
To the Park upon a Sunday, to the terrible Parade. 
There, amid the bayonets bristling, and the flashing of 

the steel. 
When the household troops in squadrons round the bold 

field-marshals wheel. 
Should 'st thou see an aged warrior in a plain blue morn 

ing frock, 
Peering at the proud battalion o'er the margin of his 

stock, — 
Should thy throbbing heart then tell thee, that the vete- 
ran, worn an gray, 
Curbed the course of Bonaparte, rolled the thunders of 

Assaye — 
Let it tell thee, stranger, likewise, that the goodly garb 

he wears 
Started into shape and being from the Doudney Bro- 
thers' shears ! 
Seek thou next the rooms of Willis— mark, where 

D'Orsay's Count is bending. 
See the trousers' undulation from his graceful hip 

descending; 
Hath the earth another trouser so compact and love- 
compelling ? 
Thou canst find it, stranger, only, if tliou seek'st the 

DouDNEYs' dwelling. 
Hark, from Windsor's royal palace, what sweet voice 

enchants the ear ? 
"Goodness, what a lovely waistcoat? Oh, who made 
it, Albert dear? 



196 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

'T is the very prettiest pattern ! You must get a dozen 

others !" 
And the Prince, in rapture, answers — " 'T is the work 

of DouDNEY Brothers !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 197 



As the youthful Paris presses 
Helen to his ivory breast, 

Sporting with her golden tresses, 
Close and ever closer pressed, 

He said : "So let me quaff the nectar, 
Which thy lips of ruby yield ; 

Glory I can leave to Hector, 
Gathered in the tented field. 

" Let me ever gaze upon thee. 
Look into thine eyes so deep ; 

With a daring hand I won thee, 
With a faithful heart I'll keep. 

" Oh, my Helen, thou bright wonder 
Who was ever like to thee ? 

Jove would lay aside his thunder, 
So he might be blest like me. 



198 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" How mine eyes so fondly linger 
On thy soft and pearly skin ; 

Scan each round and rosy finger, 
Drinking draughts of beauty in ! 

" Tell me, whence thy beauty, fairest ! 

Whence thy cheek's enchanting bloom 1 
Whence the rosy hue thou wearest. 

Breathing round thee rich perfume 1" 

Thus he spoke, with heart that panted. 
Clasped her fondly to his side, 

Gazed on her with look enchanted, 
While his Helen thus replied : 

" Be no discord, love, between us, 

If I not the secret tell ! 
'T was a gift I had of Venus, — 

Venus, who hath loved me well. 

" And she told me as she gave it, 
' Let not e'er the charm be known, 

O'er thy person freely lave it, 
Only when thou art alone.' 

' 'T is enclosed in yonder casket — 
Here behold its golden key ; 

But its name — love, do not ask it. 
Tell 't, I may not, even to thee !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 199 

Long with vow and kiss he plied her, 

Still the secret did she keep, 
Till at length he sank beside her, 

Seemed as he had dropped to sleep. 

Soon was Helen laid in slumber, 

When her Paris, rising slow, 
Did his fair neck disencumber 

From her rounded arms of snow ; 

Then her heedless fingers oping, 

Takes the key and steals away, 
To the eben table groping, 

Where the wondrous casket lay : 

Eagerly the lid uncloses, 

Sees within it, laid aslope, 
Pear's Liquid Bloom of Roses, 

Cakes of his Transparent Soap ! 



200 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



^HEg nf tIjB (KEttnt(t 



I 'm weary, and sick, and disgusted 

With Britain's mechanical din ; 
Where I 'm much too well known to be trusted, 

And plaguily pestered for tin ; 
Where love has two eyes for your banker. 

And one chilly glance for yourself; 
Where souls can afford to be franker. 

But when they 're well garnished with pelf. 

I 'm sick of the whole race of poets, 

Emasculate, missy, and fine ; 
They brew their small beer, and don't know its 

Distinction from full-bodied wine. 
I 'm sick of the prosers, that house up 

At drowsy St. Stephen's, — ain't you ? 
I want some strong spirits to rouse up 

A good I'evolution or two ! 

I 'm sick of a land, where each morrow 

Eepeats the dull tale of to-day. 
Where you can't even find a new sorrow, 

To chase your stale pleasures away. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 201 

I 'm sick of blue-stockings horrific, 

Steam, railroads, gaSj scrip, and consols ; 

So I '11 off where the golden Pacific 
Round islands of paradise rolls. 

There the passions shall revel unfettered, 

And the heart never speak but in truth, 
And the intellect wholly unlettered. 

Be bright with the freedom of youth ; 
There the earth can rejoice in her blossoms, 

Unsullied by vapor or soot, 
And there chimpanzees and opossums 

Shall playfully pelt me with fruit. 

There I '11 sit with my dark Orianas, 

In groves by the murmuring sea, 
And they '11 give, as I suck the bananas. 

Their kisses, nor ask them from me. 
They '11 never torment me for sonnets. 

Nor bore me to death with their owi ; 
They '11 ask not for shawls nor for bonnets, 

For milliners there are unknown. 

There my couch shall be earth's freshest flowers, 

My curtains the night and the stars, 
And my spirit shall gather new powers, 

Uncramped by conventional bars. 
Love for love, truth for truth ever giving, 

My days shall be manfully sped ; 

I shall know that I 'm loved while I 'm living. 

And be wept by fond eyes when I 'm dead ' 
9* 



202 THE BOOK OF BALLADS 



(Cralte. 



I LIGHTSOME, brightsome, cousin mine. 

Easy, breezy Caroline ! 
With thy locks all raven-shaded, 
From thy merry brow up-braided, 
And thine eyes of laughter full, 

Brightsome cousin mine ! 
Thou in chains of love hast bound me- 
Wherefore dost thou flit around me. 

Laughtej"-loving Caroline 1 

When 1 fain would go to sleep 

In my easy chair. 
Wherefore on my slumbers creep — 
Wherefore start me from repose, 
Tickling of my hooked nose, 

Pulling of my hair 1 
Whei-efore, then, if thou dost love me, 
So to words of anger move me. 

Corking of this face of mine, 

Tricksy cousin Caroline I 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 203 

When a sudden sound I hear, 
Much my nervous system suffers, 

Shaking through and through, — • 
Cousin Caroline, I fear, 

'T was no other, novf, but you 
Put gunpowder in the snuffers. 

Springing such a mine ! 
Yes, it was your tricksy self, 
"Wicked-tricked, little elf, 

Naughty cousin Caroline J 

Pins she sticks into my shoulder, 

Places needles in my chair, 
And, when I begin to scold her^ 

Tosses back her combed hair, 

With so saucy-vexed an air. 
That the pitying beholder 
Cannot brook that I should scold her : 
Then again she comes, and bolder, 
• Blacks anew this face of mine. 

Artful cousin Caroline ! 

Would she only say she 'd love me, ' 

Winsome tinsome Caroline, 
Unto such excess 't would move me, 

Teasing, pleasing, cousin mine ! 
That she might the live-long day 
Undermine the snuffer tray, 
Tickle still my hooked nose, 
Startle me from calm repose 



204 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

With her pretty persecution ; 
Throw the tongs against my shins, 
Run me through and through with pins, 

Like a pierced cushion ; 
Would she only say she 'd love me, 
Darning needles should not move me ; 
But reclining back, I 'd say, 
" Dearest ! there 's the snuffer tray ; 
Pinch, O pinch those legs of mine ! 

Cork me, cousin Caroline !" 



THE ROOK OF BALLADS. 205 



FOUND IN MY EMPORIUM CF LOVE TOKENS. 

Sweet flower, that with thy soft blue eye 
Did'st once look up in shady spot, 

To whisper to the passer-by 

Those tender words — Forget-me-not I 

Though withered now, thou art to me 
The minister of gentle thought, — 

And I could weep to gaze on thee, 
Love's faded pledge — Forget-me-not ! 

Thou speak'st of hours when I was young, 

And happiness arose unsought. 
When she, the whispering woods among, 

Gave me thy bloom — Forget-me-not ! 

What rapturous hour with that dear maid 
From memory's page no time shall blot, 

When, yielding to my kiss, she said, 
" Oh, Theodore— Forget-me-not !" 



206 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

A-las, for love ! alas, for truth ! 

Alas for man's uncertain lot ! 
Alas for all the hopes of youth 

That fade like thee — Forget-me-not ! 

Alas ! for that one image fair, 

With all my brightest dreams inwrought ! 
That walks beside me everywhere, 

Still whispering — Forget-me-not! 

Oh, memory ! thou art but a sigh 

For friendships dead and loves forgot ; 

And many a cold and altered eye, 
That once did say — Forget-me-not ! 

And I must bow me to thy laws. 

For — odd although it may be thought — 

I can't tell who the deuce it was 
That gave me this Forget-me-not ! 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 207 



'* Why art thou weeping, sister 1 
Why is thy cheek so pale? 

Look up, dear Jane, and tell me 
What is it thou dost ail ? 

" I know thy will is froward, 
Thy feelings warm and keen, 

And that that Augustus Howard 
For weeks has not been seen. 

" I know how much you loved him ; 

But I know thou dost not weep 
For him ; — for though his passion be, 

His purse is noways deep. 

" Then tell me why those teardrops ; 

What means this woful mood 1 
Say, has the tax-collector 

Been calling, and been rude % 



208 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Or has that hateful grocer, 
The slave ! been here to-day 1 

Of course he had, by morrow's noon, 
A heavy bill to pay ! 

" Come, on thy brother's bosom 

Unburden all thy woes ; 
Look up, look up, sweet sister ; 

There, dec-rost, blow your nose." 

"Oh, John, 't is not the grocer. 

For his account ; although 
How ever he is to be paid, 

I really do not know. 

" 'T is not the tax-collector ; 

Though by his fell command, 
They 've seized our old paternal cL^ik, 

And new umbrella-stand : 

" Nor that Augustus Howard, 

Whom I despise almost, — 
But the soot's come down the chimney, John, 

And fairly spoiled the roast !" 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 209 



(Cnmfnrt in Iffl irtinn. 



" Wherefore starts my bosom's lord 1 
Why this anguish in thine eye ? 

Oh, it seems as thy heart's chord 
Had broken with that sigh . 

" Rest thee, my dear lord, I pra-/. 
Rest thee on my bosom now ! 

And let me wipe the dews away. 
Are gathering on thy brow, 

" There, again ! that fevered start ! 

What, love ! husband ! is thy pain ? 
There is a sorrow on thy heart, 

A weight upon thy brain ! 

" Nay, nay, that sickly smile can ne'er 
Deceive affection's searching eye ; 

'T is a wife's duty, love, to share 
Her husband's agony. 



210 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

" Si^^ce the dawn began to peep, 
Have I lain with stifled breath ; 

Heard thee moaning in thy sleep, 
As thou wert at grips with death. 

" Oh, what joy it was to seo 

My gentle lord once more awake ! 

Tell me, what is amiss with thee ? 
SpeaK, or my heart will break '" 

" Mary, thou angel of my life. 
Thou ever good and kind ; 

'T is not, believe me, my dear wife, 
The anguish of the mind ! 

" It is not in my oosom dear, 
No, nor my brain, in sooth ; 

But Mary, oh, I feel it here, 
Here in my wisdom tooth ! 

" Then give, — oh, first, best antidote,- 
Sweet partner of my bed ! 

Give me thy flannel petticoat 
To wrap around my head !" 



THE BOOK 01 BALLADS, ^ 211 



€^i Sunnrntinu. 



" Brother, thou art very weary, 

And thine eye is sunk and dim, 
And thy neckcloth's tie is crumpled. 

And thy collar out of trim ; 
There is dust upon thy visage, — 

Think not Charles I would hurt ye, 
When I say, that altogether, 

You appear extremely dirty. 

" Frown not, brother, now, but hie thee 

To thy chamber's distant room ; 
Drown the odors of the ledger 

With the lavender's perfume. 
Brush the mud from off thy trowsers. 

O'er the china basin kneel. 
Lave thy brows in water softened 

With the soap of Old Castile. 

" Smooth the locks that o'er thy forehead 
Now in loose disorder stray ; 

Pare thy nails, and from thy whiskers 
Cut those ragged points away. 



412 • THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 

Let 110 more thy calculations 
Thy bewildered brain beset ; 

Life has other hopes than Cocker's, 
Other joys than tare and tret. 

" Haste thee, for I ordered dinner, 

Waiting to the very last. 
Twenty minutes after seven. 

And 't is now the quarter past. 
'T is a dinner which Lucullus 

Would have wept with joy to see, 
One, might wake the soul of Curtis 

From Death's drowsy atrophy. 

" There is soup of real turtle, 

Turbot, and the dainty sole ; 
And the mottled roe of lobsters 

Blushes through the butter bowl. 
There the lordly haunch of mutton. 

Tender as the mountain grass, 
Waits to mix its ruddy juices 

With the girdling caper-sauce. 

" There a stag, whose branching forehead 

Spoke him monarch of the herds, 
He whose flight was o'er the heather, 

Swift as through the air the bird's, 
Yields for thee a dish of cutlets ; 

And the haunch that wont to dash 
O'er the roaring mountain torrent. 

Smokes in most delicious hash. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 213 

" There, besides, are amber jellies 

Floating like a golden dream ; 
Ginger from the far Bermudas 

Dishes of Italian cream; 
And a princely apple-dumpling, 

Which my own fair fingers wrought, 
Shall un.^old its nectared treasures 

To thy lips all smoking hot. 

' Ha ! I see thy brow is clearing. 

Lustre flashes from thine eyes ; 
To thy lips I see the moisture 

Of anticipation rise. 
Hark ! the dinner bell is sounding '" 

" Only wait one moment, Jane : 
I'll be dressed, and down, before you 

Can get up the iced champagne !" 



214 THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



«jlB lushanii's l^tiiliu. 



Come hither, my heart's darling, 

Come, sit upon my knee, 
And listen, while I whisper 

A boon I ask of thee. 
You need not pull my whiskers 

So amorously, my dove ; 
'T is something quite apart from 

The gentle cares of love. 

I feel a bitter craving — 

A dark and deep desire, 
That glows beneath my bosom 

Like coals of kindled fire. 
The passion of the nightingale, 

When singing to the rose, 
Is feebler than the agony 

That murders my repose ! 

Nay, dearest ! do not doubt me, 
Though madly thus I speak — 

I feel thy arms about me, 
Thy ti'esses on my cheek : 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 2 1 ft 

I know the sweet devotion 

That links thy heart with mine, — 

I know my soul's emotion 
Is doubly felt by thine : 

And deem not that a shadow 

Hath fallen across my love : 
No, sweet, my love is shadowless, 

As yonder heaven above. 
These little taper fingers — 

Ah, Jane ! how white they be ! — 
Can well supply the cruel want 

That almost maddens me. 

Thou wilt not sure deny me 

My first and fond request ; 
I pray thee, by the memory 

Of all we cherish best — 
By all the dear remembrance 

Of those delicious days, 
When, hand in hand, we wandered 

Along the summer braes r 

By all we felt, unspoken, 

When 'neath the early moon. 
We sat beside the rivulet, 

Tn the leafy month of June ; 
And by the broken whisper 

That fell, upon my ear, 
More sweet than angel-mlisic, 

When first I woo'd thee, dear ! 



216 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS. 



By that great vow which hound thee 

For ever to my side, 
And by the ring that made thee 

My darling and my bride ! 
Thou wilt not fail nor falter, 

But bend thee to the task — 

A BOILED sheep's-head ON SuNDAY 

Is all the boon I ask ! 




FIRMILIAN 



STUDENT OF BADAJOZ 



"SPASMODIC" TKAGEDY 



BY T. PERCY JONES 

(WILLIAM EDMONDSTOUNE AYTOON.) 



FIEMlLIAISr. 



{Extract from the North British Review, /or September, 1866.) 

" The latest of Aytoun's jeux cfesprit which made any con- 
siderable hit was perhaps the best of them all: Tirmilian; or, 
The Student of Badajoz. A Spasmodic Tragedy. By T. Percy 
Jones.' About a dozen years ago, there existed a bad school of 
poetry, encouraged by an absurd school of criticism, and owing 
its origin ultimately to the ' Festus ' of Mr. Bailey. 

"No doubt there were men among them whose natural 
poetic power was greater than Aytoun's own. But the power 
was absurdly used; was employed on extravagant conceptions 
clo*ih(d in extravagant expression; and the result was some- 
tb\ng offensive to all who had formed their -taste on tlie great 
models, whether of antiquity or of England. 

"Aytoun's sympathies in these matters were sound; indeed, 
if they erred at all, they erred from a certain narrowness on 
the sound side. So he did what his talents exactly suited him 
for — wrote an elaborate squib on the juvenile offenders., 'Fir- 
MILIAN ' is a poetaster, with a taste for sensuality and a morbid 
hankering after crime, and his rant in verse is an admirable imi- 
tation of the kind of stuff that was produced, in all seriousness, by 
our younger poets in 1853-54. 

" ' FiRMiLiAN,' no doubt, helped to explode the now-almost- 
forgotten nonsense at which it was levelled. 

"The 'spasmodic school' no longer exists as a school; and 
any single member of it, who has reached any position in letters, 
has done so by emancipating himself from the absurdities of his 
youth. 

"Unluckily, in some cases in which the extravagance was 
thought to be an excess of power, it has turned out that the 
power resided only in the extravagance. When the spasmodic 
poet has begun to write like other people, he has written worse." 



PREFACE, 



As several passages of the following Poem 
have appeared in the pages of periodicals, I 
consider it an act of justice to myself to lay 
the whole before the public. 1 am not at all 
deterred by the fear of hostile criticism — I be- 
lieve that no really good thing was ever injured 
by criticism ; and, so far from entertaining an 
angry feeling t(Twards the gentlemen who have 
noticed my work, I thank them for having 
brought me forward. 



IV PREFACE. 

It is a common practice, now-a-dajs, for poets 
to appeal to the tender mercies of the public, by 
issuing prefaces in which they acknowledge, in 
as many words, the weakness and poverty of 
their verse. If the acknowledgment is sincere, 
how can they expect the public to show them 
any favor? If it is a mere hypocritical affec- 
tation, it were better omitted. And the practice 
is unwise as it is absurd. What would we think 
.t* the manufacturer who should entreat us to 
buy his goods, because they were of an inferior 
kind, or of the tradesman who should deliber- 
ately announce that his stock was of a poor 
quality? For my part, if I conscientiously be- 
lieved that my poetry was not worthy of ad- 
miration, I never would commit the impertinence 
of asking any one to read it. 

There has been, of late, much senseless talk 



P ii E F A C E . T 

about "schools of poetry;" and it has been said, 
on the strength of the internal evidence afforded 
by some passages in m}^ play, that I have joined 
the ranks, and uphold the tenets, of those who 
belong to " the Spasmodic School." I deny the 
allegation altogether. I belong to no school, 
except that of nature ; and I acknowledge the 
authority of no living master. But, lest it should 
be thought that I stand in terror of a nick-name 
— the general bugbear to young authors — I have 
deliberately adopted the title of " Spasmodic," 
and have applied it in the title-page to my 
tragedy. It is my firm opinion that all high 
poetry is and must be spasmodic. Kemove that 
element from Lear — from Othello — from Mac- 
beth — from any of the great works which refer 
to the conflict of the passions — and what would 
be the residue ? A mere caput mortimm. I 



VI PREFACE. 

differ from those who regard veree and poeti-y 
as being one and the same thing; or who look 
upon a collection of glittering conceits, and 
appropriate similes as the highest proof of poet- 
ical accomplishment. The office of poetry is to 
exhibit the passions in that state of excitement 
which distinguishes one from the other; and, 
until a dramatic author has learned this secret, 
all the fine writing in the world will avail him 
nothing. Cato is perhaps the best-written tra- 
gedy in the English language ; and yet, what 
man in his senses would dream of reading 
Cato twice ? 

I have been accused of extravagance, princi- 
pally, I presume, on account of the moral obli- 
quity of the character of Firmilian. To that ] 
reply, that the moral of a play does not depend 
upon the morals of any one character depictea 



PREFACE. Vll 

in it ; and that many of the characters drawn by 
the magic pencil of Shakespeare are shaded as 
deep, or even deeper, than Firmilian. Set him 
beside lago, Richard III., or the two Macbeths, 
and 1 venture to say that he will not look dark 
in comparison. Consider carefully the character 
of Hamlet, and yon will find that he is very 
nearly as selfish as Firmilian. Hamlet is said to 
shadow forth '* Constitutional Irresolution ;" — my 
object in Firmilian has been to typify "Intel- 
lect without Principle." 

If the extravagance is held to lie in the con- 
ception and handling of my subject, then I assert 
fearlessly that the same charge may be preferred 
with greater reason against Goethe's masterpiece, 
the Faust. I have not considered it necessary 
to evoke the Devil in my pages — I have not 
introduced the reader to the low buffooneries of 



viii prefacp:. 

Auerbach's cellar, or to the Witch with her 
hybrid apes — nor have I indulged in the weird 
revelries and phantasmagoria of the Brocken. I 
do not presume to blame Goethe for his use of 
such material, any more than I should think of 
impugning Shakespeare for the Ghost in Hamlet^ 
or the Witches in Macbeth. I merely wish to 
show that the "utter extravagance" v"vhich some, 
writers affect to have discovered in my play, is 
traceable only to their own defects in high ima- 
ginative development. 

If I am told that the character of Firmilian 
is not only extravagant, but utterly without a 
parallel in nature, 1 shall request my critic to 
revise liis opinion after he has perused the histo- 
ries of Madame de Brinvilliers and the Borgias. 

I am perfectly aware that this poem is un- 
equal, and that some passages of it are inferior 



PREFACE. ix 

in interest to others. Such was my object, foi 
I am convinced that there can be no beaut) 
without breaks and undulation. 

I am not arrogant enough to assert that this 
is the finest poem which the age has produced ; 
but I shall feel very much obliged to any 
gentleman who can ^make me acquainted with 
a better. 

T. PERCY JONES. 

Stueatham, July, '864. 



DRAMATIS PERSONS. 



FiRMiLiAN, The Student of Badajoz. 
Haverillo, a Poet. 

Alphonzo D'AamLAR, \ 

f Students ana l^fiends of 
Garcia Perez, V 

\ Firmilian. 

Alonzo Olivarez, ; 

Chief Inquisitor. 

An Old Inquisitor. 

Balthazar, ) ^ .,. ^ , r • •.• 

V Fmmliars of the Inquisttior. 

Gil of Santillane, ) 

NicoDEMUS, Firmilians Servant. 

Priest of St. Nicholas. 

A Graduate. 

Two Gentlemen of Badajoz. 

Confessor. 

Fabian, Steward to the Countess D'Aguilar. 

Apollodorus, a Critic. 

Sancho, a Coster mo7iger. 

The Countess D'Aguilar. 

Mariana. 

Lilian. 

Indlana. 

The Scene of the Play is Badajoz and its neighborhood. 



FTRMILIAN 



SCEISTE 1. 

FiRMiLiA"K in his study reading. 

Theee hours of study — and what gain thereby ? 

My brain is reeling to attach the sense 

Of what I read, as a drunk mariner 

Who, stumbling o'er the bulwark, makes a clutch 

At the wild incongruity of ropes, * 

And topples into mud ! 

Good Aristotle ! 
Forgive me if I lay thee henceforth by. 



14 FIRMILIAN. 

And seek some other teacher. Thou hast been, 

For many hundred years, the bane and curse 

Of all the budding intellect of man. 

Thine earliest pupil, Alexander — he 

The most impulsive and tumultuous sprite 

That ever spurned old sy&fems at the heel, 

And dashed the dust of action in the eyes 

Of the slow porers over antique shards — 

Held thee, at twenty, an especial fool. 

And why ? The grand God-impulse in his heart 

That drove him over the oblique domain 

Of Asia and her kingdoms, and that urged 

His meteor leap at Porus' giant throat — 

Or the sublime illusion of the sense 

Which gave to Thais that tremendous torch 

Whence whole Persepol is was set on fire — 

Was never kindled surely by such trash 

As I, this m'ght, have heaped upon my brain ! 

Hence, vile impostor ! 

[Flings away the hooh 



F I li M I L I A N . 15 

Who shall take his place ? 
What hoary dotard of antiquity 
Shall I invite to dip his clumsy foot 
Within the limpid fountain of ray mind, 
And stamp it into foulness ? Let me see — 
Following Salerno's doctrine, human lore 
Divides itself into three faculties. 
The Eden rivers of the intellect. 
There's Law, Theology, and Medicine, 
And all beyond their course is barren ground. 
So say the Academics ; and they're right. 
If learning's to be measured by its gains. 
The lawyer speaks no word without a fee — 
The Priest demands his tithes, and will not sing 
A gratis mass to help his brother's soul. 
The purgatorial key is made of gold : 
None else will fit the wards ; — and for the Doctor, 
The good kind man who lingers by your couch. 
Compounds you pills and potions, feels your pulse, 
And takes especial notice of your tongue, 



16 FIKMILIAN. 

If you allow him once to leave the room 
Without the proper greasing of his palm, 
Look out for Azrael ! 

So, then, these three 
Maintain the sole possession of the schools , 
Whilst, out of doors, amidst the sleet and rain, 
Thin-garbed Philosophy sits shivering down, 
And shares a mouldy crust with Poetry ! 

And shall I then take Gelsus for my guide, 

Confound my brain with dull Justinian's tomes, 

Or stir the dust that lies o'er Augustine ? 

Not I, in faith ! I've leaped into the air. 

And clove my way through ether, like a bird 

» 
That flits beneath the glimpses of the moon. 

Right eastward, till I lighted at the foot 

Of holy Helicon, and drank my fill 

At the clear spout of Aganippe's stream. 

I've rolled my limbs in ecstasy along 

The self-same turf (Hi which old Homer lay 



F I R M I L I A N . 17 

That night he dreamed of Helen and of Troy : 

And I have heard, at midnight, the sweet strains 

Come quiring from the hill-top, where, enshrined 

In the rich foldings of a silver cloud, 

The Muses sang Apollo into sleep. 

Then came the voice of universal Pan, 

The dread earth-whisper, booming in mine ear— 

" Rise up, Firmilian — rise in might !■ ' it said ; 

" Great youth, baptized to song ! Be it thy task, 

Out of the jarring discords of the world, 

To recreate stupendous harmonies 

More grand in diapason than the roll 

Among the mountains of the thunder-psalm ! 

Be thou no slave of passion. Let not love. 

Pity, remorse, nor any other thrill 

That sways the actions of uugifted men. 

Affect thy course. Live for thyself alone. 

Let appetite thy ready handmaid be. 

And pluck all fruitage from the tree of life, 

Be it forbidden or no. If any comes 



18 F T R M r L I A N . 

Between thee and the pnrpose of thy bent, 
Launch thou the arrow from the string of might 
Right to the bosom of the impious wretch, 
And let it quiver there ! Be great in guilt ! 
If, like Busiris, thou canst rack the heart, 
Spare it no pang. So shalt tliou be prepared 
To make thy song a tempest, and to shake 
The earth to its foundation — Go thy way !" ■ 
I woke, and found myself in Badajoz. 
But from that day, with frantic might, I've striven 
To give due utterance to the awful shrieks 
Of him who first imbued his hand in gore, - 
To paint the mental spasms that tortured Cain ! 
How have I done it ? Feebly. What we write 
Must be the reflex of the thing we know ; 
For who can limn the morning. If his eyes 
Have never looked upon Aurora's face ? 
Or who describe the cadence of the sea. 
Whose ears were never open to tlie waves 
Or the shrill winding of the Triton's horn ? 



FTRMILIAN. 19 

What do I know as yet of homicide ? 

Nothing. Fool — fool ! to lose thy precious time 

In dreaming of what may be, when an act 

Easy to plan, and easier to effect, 

Can teach thee every thing ! What — craven mind — 

Shrink'st thou from doing, tor a noble aim. 

What, every hour, some villain, wretch or slave 

Dares for a purse of gold ? It is resolved— 

I'll ope the lattice of some mortal cage. 

And let the soul go free ! 

A draught of wine ! {Drinlcs.) 
Ha ! this revives me ! How the nectar thrills 
Like joy through all my frame ! There's not a god 
In the Pantheon that can rival thee, 
Thou purple-lipped Lyseus ! And thon'rt strong 
As thou art bounteous. Were I Ganymede, 
To stand beside the pitchers at the feast 
Of the Olympian revel, and to give 
The foaming cups to Hebe — how I'd laugh 
To see thee trip up iron Yulcan's heels, 



20 F I K M I L I A N . 

Prostrate old Keptune, and fling bullying Mars, 
With all his weight of armor on his back, 
Down with a clatter on the heavenly floor ! 
Not Jove himself dare risk a fall with thee, 
Lord of the panthers ! Lo, I drink again. 
And the high purpose of my soul grows Arm, 
As the sw^eet venom circles in my veins — 
It is resolved ! Come, then, mysterious Guilt, 
Thou raven-mother, come— and fill my cup 
With thy black beverage ! I am sworn to thee, 
And will not falter ! 

But the victim ? That 
Requires a pause of thouglit — 

I must begin 
With some one dear to me, or else the deed 
Would lose its flavor and its poignancy. 
Now, let me see There's Lilian, pretty maid — 
Tlie tender, blushing, yielding Lilian — 
She loves me but too well. What if I saved 
Her young existence from all future throes. 



F I R M I L I A N . 21 

And laid her pallid on an early bier ? 

Wlij, that were mercy both to her and me, 

"Not ruthless sacrifice. And, more than this. 

She hath an uncle an Inquisitor, 

Who might be tempted to make curious quest 

About the final ailments of his niece. 

Therefore, dear Lilian, live ! I harm thee not. 

There's Mariana, she, mine own betrotlted, 

The blooming mistress of the moated grange, 

She loves me well — but we're not married yet. 

It will be time enough to think of her 

After her lands are mine ; therefore, my own. 

My sweet affianced, sleep thou on in peace, 

Nor dream of ruffian wrong. Then there's another, 

That full-blown beauty of Abassin blood 

Whose orient charms are madness ! Shall she die ? 

Why, no — not now at least. 'Tis but a week 

Since, at the lonely cottage in the wood, 

My eyes first rested on that Queen of lud ! 

O, she of Sheba was an ugly ape 



22 F I R M I L I A N . 

Compared with Indiana ! — Let her pass. 

There's Haverillo, mine especial friend — 

A better creature never framed a verse 

By dint of finger-scanning; yet he's deemed 

A proper poet by the gaping fools 

Who know not me ! I love him ; for he's kind, 

And very credulous. To send him hence 

Would be advancement to a higher sphere — 

A gain to him, no loss to poetry. 

I think that he's the man : yet, hold awhile — 

No rashness in this matter ! He liath o^ot 

CD 

Acknowledgments of mine within his desk 
For certain sums of money — paltry dross 
Which 'tis my way to spurn. TVe found him still 
A most convenient creditor : he asks 
No instant payment for his fond advance, 
Nor yet is clamoi'ous for the usufruct. 
How if, he being dead, some sordid slave, 
Brother or cousin, who might heir his wealth. 
Should chance to stumble on those bonds of mine, 



F I R M I L I A N . 23 

And sue me for the debt ? That were enough 
To break tlie wanton wings of Pegasus, 
And bind him to a stall ! l^or have I yet 
Exhausted half his means ; it may be soon 
I shall require moie counters, and from him 
I may depend upon a fresh supply. 
A riglit good fellow is this Haverillo — 
A mine, a storehouse, and a treasury, 
My El-Dorado and my Mexico — 
Then let .him live and thrive ! 

Are there no more? 
O, yes ! There's Garcia Perez — he's my friend, 
And ever stood above me in the schools. 
And there's that young Alphonzo D'Aguilar, 
Proud of his Countsliip and Castilian blood, 
He hath vouchsafed me notice, and I love him. 
And there's Alonzo Olivarez, too. 
That mould of Hercules, — he's near of kin 
To "Mariana, and his wealth accrues 
Solelv to her. I love him like a brothei'. 



24 F I R M I L I A N . 

Be these mj choice. I sup with them to-morow. 

Come down, old Raymond LuUj, from the shelf, 
Thou quaint discourse!* upon pharmacy. 
Did not Lucretia — not the frigid dame 
Who discomposed young Tarquin in her bower, 
But the complete and liberal Borgia — 
Consult thy pages for a sedative ? 
Ay — here it is ! In twenty minutes, death ; 
The compound tasteless, and beyond the skill 
Of any earthly leech to recognize. 
Thanks, Raymond, thanks ! 

How looks the night ? Thou nioon, 
That in thy perfect and perennial course 
Wanderest at will across the fields of heaven — 
Thoii argent beauty, meditative orb. 
That spiest out the secrets of the earth 
In the still hours when o-nilt and murder walk — 
To what far region takest thou thy way ? 
Not Latmos now allures thee, for the time 
When boy Endymion stretched his tender liinbs 



F I R M I L T A N . 25 

Within the coverture of Dian's bower. 



Hath melted into fable. Wilt thou pass 

To Ephesus, thy city, glorious once, 

But now dust-humblecl ; and, for ancient love, 

Make bright its ruined shafts, and weed-grown 

walls. 
With molten silver? Or invite thee more 
The still witch-haunted plains of Thessaly, 
Where, o'er ihe bones of the Pharsalian dead, 
Amidst the gibbering of tlie Lemures, 
Grim women mutter spells, and pale thy face 
With monstrous incantation ? What ! already 
Shrink'st thou behind the curtain of a cloud 
E'en at my looking ? Then I know indeed 
My destiny is sure ! For I was born 
To make thee and thine astral brethren quake. 
And I will do it ! Glide thou on thy way — 
I will to rest — best slumber while I miij ! 

2 



26 ' F I R M I L I A N . 



SCENE 11. 
A7i Apartment. Mariana and Haverillo. 

HAVERILLO. 

Yoli need not fear liini, cousin ; for I'm sure 

His heart's m the right place. He's wayward, 

doubtless, 
And very often unintelligible, 
But that is held to be a virtue now. 
Critics and poets both (save I, who cling 
To older canons) have discarded sense, 
And meaning's at a discount. Our young spirits, 
"Who call themselves the masters of the age, 
Are either robed in philosophic mist, 
And, with an air of grand profundity. 
Talk metaphysics — which, sweet cousin, means 
Nothing but aimless jargon — or they come 
Before us in the broad bombastic vein, 



FIRMILIAN. 27 

With spasms, and throes, and transcendental flights, 
And heap hyperbole on metaphor : [harm ; 

Well ! Ileaven be with tiiem, for they do small 
And I no more would grudge them their career 
Than I would quarrel with a wanton horse 
That rolls, on Sundays, in a clover-held. 
Depend upon it, ere two years are gone, 
Firmiiian will be wiser. 

MARIANA. 

Yet you leave 
The point on which my soul is racked untouched. 
Men read not women's characters aright, 
!Nor women men's. But I have heard this said. 
That woman holds by duty —man by honor. 
If that be true, what think you of your friend ? 

HAVERILLO. 

Whv — honor is at best a curious thinof. 
A very honorable man will drive 



^8 F 1 K M I L I A N . 

His sword into the bosom of a friend 

For having challenged some oblique remark, 

Yet will not stand on honor when the road 

Lies open for him to his neighbor's wife. 

Your honorable man cheats not at cards. 

But he will ruin tradesmen, and will sign 

A vast abundance of superfluous bills 

Without the means to pay them. Honor ! humph ! 

No doubt Firmilian is honorable. 

MARIANA. 

Ay, cousin ; but there's something more than that. 
Honor in love — How say you ? Do you think 
That you can stand the sponsor for yonr friend? 

HAVERILLO. 

i never was a sponsor in my life, 

And won't be now. My pretty Mariana, 

You should have thought of all such toys as these 

Ere the betrothal. You have given yonr word. 



F I K M I L I A N . 29 

And cannot well withdraw. And, for yonr comfort, 

You nrnst remember what Firmilian is — 

A Poet He is privileged to sing 

A thousand ditties to a thousand maids. 

Ten Muses waited at Apollo's beck — 

Our modern poets are more amorous, 

And far exceed the count of Solomon ; 

But 'tis mere fancy ; inspiration all ; 

Pure worthless rhyming. — Soft you : here lie comes." 

Enter Firmilian. 

FIRMILIAN. 

joy ! to see the partner of my thought 
Together with the partner of my soul ! 
Dear Haverillo ! pardon if before 

1 join the pressure of my palm with yours, 
I lay this tribute on my lady's hand. 

HATERTLLO. 

Well, we'll not tight about precedenc3\ 



30 FIRMILIAN. 

And you have come in time. My cousin here 
Was pressing me too hard. 

FIRMILIAN. 

[Jpon wliat point ? 

havp:rillo. 

Why, faith, to tell the truth — for I could never 
Summon a lie to meet an exigence — 
Nay, frown not, cousin ! — She's inquisitive 
About what men call honor. I have done 
My utmost to explain it. 

FIRMILIAN. 

I am glad. 
Dear Mariana, that you laid your doubt 
Before so wise a judge. ]^ot Badajoz, 
Nor Spain, nor Europe, doth contain a man 
So stainless in his mind as Haverillo ; 
And you shall pardon me for saying this 



F I R ^r I L 1 A N . 31 

Before your face, for I've especjal reason. 
You've been to me a true and constant friend. 
When I had need of money ('tis no shame 
In a poor student to acknowledge this) — 
You have supplied me ; and I come to-day 
To thank you and repay you. My old uncle, 
The Dean of Salamanca, has expired 
Quite full of years and honors, and has left 
To me, his nephew, all his worldly goods, 
Which are, to say the least, considerable. 
Therefore, dear Haverillo, let us meet — 
Yet not to-day — because some time must pass 
Ere I receive the hoards — they say, enormous — 
Of that quiescent pillar of the Church — 
But at the very speediest point of time 
I can select, that I may show my friend 
What love I bear him for his trust in me. 

HAVERILLO. 

You hear him, Mariana ? Dear Firmilian ! 



32 F I K M I L I A N . 

I'm prouder of thy love than if I were 
The king of Onnus ! So your uncle's dead» 
Go you to Salamanca speedily ? 

FIKMILIAN. 

If I am summoned, and they send me funds, 
I cannot choose but go—not otherwise. 
Taith, this bequest comes at a lucky time. 
For my last ducat slumbers in my purse 
Without a coin to keep it company. 

HAVERILLO. 

Be that no hindrance. Here are eighty ducats — 
Take them. Nay, man ; is't kindly to refuse ? 
"What a friend proffers, that a friend should take 
Without compulsion. 'Tis a petty loan 
To be repaid at your convenience — 
You'll vex me otherwise. 



FIRMILIAN. S3 

FrRM[LIAN. 

I VI rather clash 
My band, like Scsevola, into the flame, 
Than vex my Haverillo ! O dear heaven ; 
If those who rail at hnman nature knew 
How many kindly deeds each hour brings forth — 
How man by man is cherished and sustained — 
They'd leave their carping. ■ I will take your olFer, 
And hail it as the earliest drop of wealtli, 
So soon to ripen to a glorious shower. 
What says my Mariana ? 

MARIANA. 

That she loves you 
More for your yielding to your friend's desire, 
Than if you held by pride. 

HAVERILLO. 

Well put, sweet cousin ! 
2* 



84 F I R M I I- I A N . 

But, dear Firmilian, what hath chanced of late, 

To make you such a hermit ? You were once 

Gay as the lark, and jocund as the bee ; 

First in good-fellowship, and ever prone 

To wing occasion with a merry jest. 

l^ow you are grave and moody, and there liangs 

A cloud of mystery about your brow ; 

You look like one that wrestles with a thought 

And cannot fling it down. Is't poetry 

Hath brought you to this pass ? How come you on 

With your intended tragedy on Cain ? 

FIRMILTAN. 

O, that's abandoned quite ! The subject was 
Too gloomy for my handling ; and perhaps, 
Out of absorption of my intellect. 
It threw a shade on my behavior. 
Henceforward I'll be genial — take my place 
With the large-hearted men who love their kind 



FIRMILIAN. 35 

^Whereof there seems a vast abundance now), 
And follow your example. 

HAVERILLO. 

Well said, boy ! 
Anacreon crowned his hoary locks with flowers, 
Blithe-hearted Horace chirped amidst his cups. 
Then why not we ? Right glad am I to find 
You've done with dismals. Here's a little thing, now, 
I wrote tlie other day, on love and wine. 
Quite germain to the matter. Will you hear it ? 

FIRMILTAN. 

I would not listen to Apollo's lute 

With greater rapture. But my^ime is brief — 

I had a word to say to Mariana, 

HAVERILLO. 

I understand. You want to speak of love 



36 FIRMILIAN. 

In the first person ? 'Faith I was a fool 
I^ot sooner to perceive it ! Fare you well — 
Some other time, be sure, I'll claim your ear. 

[Exit 

MARIANA. 

my clear love, what trouble rends your heart ? 
A loving eye hath instinct in its glance, 

And mine discerns in yours a deeper weight 
Than yoii light-hearted creature could perceive. 
What ails my own Firmilian ? 

FiRMILIAN. 

Mariana — 

1 think you love ine? 

MARIANA. 

Cruel ! Can you ask 
That question of me now ? Three months ago, 
Beside the gentle Guadiana's stream, 



FTKMILIAN. 37 

You asked it in a whisper, and I gave 

No cold response. 

FIRMILIAN. 

Three months, my Mariana, 
Are somewhat in a lifetime, and may give 
Large opportunity for altered thoughts. 
Three hours may change a sinner to a saint — 
Three days a friend into an enemy — 
Three weeks a virgin to a courtesan — 
Three months a conqueror to a fugitive. 
I say not this in challenge of your love, 
But as a fixed eternal law of time 
That cannot be gainsayed. I know you loved me. 
When, by the gentle Guadiana's stream, 
We interchanged our troth. 

MARIANA. 

And what hath chanced 
Since then to make you doubt me ? Have a care 



38 FIKMILIAN. 

Of what you say, Firinilian ! Women's hearts 
Are tender and impressible as wax, 
But undei-neath there lies a solid fold 
Of pride. You'd best be cautious ! 

FIRMUJAN. 

Lo you now — 
She makes me an accuser ! Mariana ! 
My own, my beautiful — I'd rather doubt 
The lustre of the star Aldebaran 
Than the firm faith of thine unbiassed soul. 
But I have enemies. It is the fate 
Of genius that it cannot spread its wings. 
And soar triumphant to the welcoming clouds, 
Without a hateful cawing from the crows. 
Mark me I I am not quite as other men ; 
My aims are higher, more resolved than theirs, 
And therefore they detest me. There's no shaft 
Within the power of calumny to loose 
Which is not bent at me. I am not blind 



F 1 R M I L T A N . 39 

"With soaring near the sun. I know full well 
That envious men have termed me libertine — 
And, from the frank out-welling of my mind 
(Which never flowed from impulse save to thee), 
Have done me fearful wrong. And this it is 
That racks my being. There's your kinsman now, 
Alonzo Oiivarez — he makes free, 
I'm told, with my fair fame. 

MARIANA. 

You need not fear him. 
Surely you know Alonzo. 

FIRMILTAN. 

Yes. I know him 
As a strong fool, who, in his roystering cups, 
Does far more mischief than the veriest knave 
Whose power of satire makes his words suspect. 
There's no such libeller as your arrant ass ! 
Men know he can't invent ; and what he says 



40 FIRMILIAN. 

Gains credit from his sheer stupidity. 
Hath he not talked of me ? 

MARIANA. 

Indeed he has ; 
But what he said escaped me. 

FIRMILIAN. 

Then I'm right ! 
He's Garcia's mouthpiece ; and I know the man 
That sets them on— Alphonzo D'Aguilar — 
Who swears you loved him once. 

MARIANA. 

If he does so, 
He's an unmeasured villain ! What — Alphonzo 
Had I ne'er seen thy face, Firmilian, 
And did my choice lie 'twixt a muleteer 
And that stiff scion of Castilian blood, 



F I R M I I. I A N . 41 

I'd wed the peasant ! Do you tell me this ? 
O, now I understand their treachery ! 

FIRMILIAN. 

And therefore solely have I tried thee thus. 
Dear Mariana, weep not ! I perceive 
What hath been done. 'Tis an accursed world, 
Wherein bright things have little leave to shine 
Without the sullying of some envious hand. 
Henceforth be thou and I sole witnesses 
Against each other. Let us shut the door 
To all the outward blasts of calumny, 
And live by mutual trusting. Dry your tears ! 
Or, if you will, weep on, and I shall count 
For every pearly drop with D'Aguilar, 
Making him pay tlie ransom with his blood. 
O that a caitiff's slander should have power 
To rack thee thus ! 



42 FIRMILIAN. 

MAKIANA. 

'Tis gone — the storm has past. 
'Twas but a bitter hail-shower, and the sun 
Laughs out again within the tranquil blue. 
Henceforth, Firmilian, thou art safe with me. 
If all the world conspired to do thee wrong, 
And heap its ugly slanders on thy head — 
Yea, though an angel should denounce my love, 
I would not listen. From thy lips alone 
I'll hear confession. 

FIRMILIAN. 

And the penance, sweet — 
Make it no more than this. 

O balmy breath ! 

[The scene closes. 



F I R M I L I A N . ^^ 



SCENE III. 

A Tavern, Alphonzo D'Aguilak, Garcia Perez, 
Alonzo Olivarez, and Firmllian. 

PEREZ. 

You take it far too hotly, D'Aguilar— 

All men are fanciful in love, and beauty 

Is as abundant as the open air 

In every region of this bounteous world. 

You stand for Spanish beauty— what's your type? 

Dark hair, vermilion lips, an olive tint, 

A stately carriage, and a flashing eye, 

Go northward : there's your Dutchman— he prefers 

Blonde tresses, dove-like glances and a form 

Of most enticing plumpness. Then the Dane 

Is all for red and blue ; the brighter color 

Pertaining chiefly to the lady's hair, 



4:4: FIKMll. IAN 

The duller to her eyes. For my own part, 
I love variety. 

d'aguilak. 

And so do I, 
Within its proper bounds. No grander show 
Could poet fancy in his wildest dreams, 
Than a great tournament of Europe's knights, 
The free, the strong, the noble, and the brave. 
Splintering their lances in a guarded list, 
Beneath a balcony of Europe's dames. 
Oh, could I sound a trump and bring them here, 
In one vast troop of valor and renown ! 
The gay, light-hearted cliivalry of France, 
The doughty English, and the hardy Scot, 
The swart Italian, and the ponderous Swede, 
With those who dwell beside the castled Khine. 
Nor they alone, but with them all the flowers 
That send their odor over Oliristendom — 
The fair and blushing beauties of the lands 



F I K M I L I A N . 4:5 

From tlie far Baltic to our inland sea. 
Bj him of Compostella ! 'twere a field 
"Wherein a noble might be proud to die. 

FIRMILIAN . 

I am not noble, and I'd rather die 
At peace in my own bed. But, D'Aguilar, — 
Are you not too exclusive ? I have read — 
For I have been a student of romance. 
And pored upon the tomes of cliivalry — 
How ere the days of mighty Charlemagne 
The South did glorious battle with the North, 
And Afric's atabals were lieard to clang 
Amoiig the thickets by the turbid Seine. 
Yea, I have heard of knights of old descent, 
Cross-hilted warriors. Paladins indeed, 
Who would have bartered all tlie boasted charms 
Of Europe's beauties, for one kindly glance 
Shot from the eyelids of a Faynim maid. 



46 ftrmilian. 

d'aguilar. 

Firmiliau, thou blaspheniest ! Never knight 
To whom the stroke of chivahy was given, 
Could stoop to cuch an utter infamy ! 

FLRMILIAN. 

Your pardon, Count ! When English Richard bcr- 
Upon his bosom the Crusader's sign, 
And fought in Palestine, he laid liis sword 
Upon the shoulder of a Moslem chief 
And dubbed him, knight. 



The greater villain he I 
I've heard of that same Richard as a most 
Malignant child of Luther. 

FTRMILIAN. 

Have you so ? 



F I R M I L I A N . 47 

Nay, then, chronology must do him wrong: 
But that's no matter. Then you would exclude 
All beauty from that tournament of yours 
Which did not appertain to Christendom ? 



Doubt you the answer of a Christian peer. 
Within whose veins the blood of old Castile, 
Un dimmed by peasant or mechanic mud, 
Flows bright as ruby ? Yes, what mean you. Sir, 
By asking such a question ? 

PEREZ. 

Soft you now ! 
Theic s no offence. Let's hear Firmilian. 

FIRMILIAN. 

I knew a poet once ; and he was young, 
And intermingled with such fierce desires 
As made pale Eros veil his face with grief. 



48 F I R M r L I A N . 

And caused his lustier brother to rejoice. 

He was as amorous as a crocodile 

In the spring season, when the Memphian bank, 

Receiving substance from the glaring sun, 

Resolves itself from mud into a shore. 

And — as the scaly creature wallowing there, 

In its hot fits of passion, belches forth 

The steam from out its nostrils, half in love, 

And half in grim defiance of its kind ; 

Trusting that either, from the reedy fen. 

Some reptile-virgin coyly may appear, 

Or that the hoary Sultan of the Nile 

May make tremendous challenge with his jaws, 

And, like Mark Antliony, assert his right 

To all the Cleopatras of the ooze — ' 

So fared it with the poet that I knew. 

He had a soul beyond the vulgar reach. 
Sun ripened swarthy. He was not the fool 
To pluck the feeble lily from its shade 



FIKMILIAN. 49 

When the black liyacinth stood in fragiaiice by. 
The lady of his love was dnsk as Ind, 
Her lips as plenteous as the Sphinx's are, 
And her short hair crisp with Numidian curl. 
She was a negress. You have heard the strains 
That Dante, Petrarch, and such puling fools 
As loved the daughters of cold Japhet's race, 
Have lavished idly on their icicles. 
As snow melts snow, so their unhasty fall 
Fell chill and barren on a pulseless heart. 
But, would you know what noontide ardor is. 
Or in what mood the lion, in the waste, 
All fever-maddened, and intent on cubs, 
At the oasis waits the lioness — 
That shall you gather from the fiery song 
Which that young poet framed, before he dared 
Invade the vastness of his lady's lips. 

d'aguilae. 
Spawn of Mahmoud ! would'st thou pollute mine 
ears 3 



50 FIRMILIAN. 

With thy lewd ditties? There! {Strikes him.) 

Thou hast the hand 
For once, of a true noble, on thy cheek ; 
And what the hand has done, it will defend. 

PEREZ. 

This is too much ! Nay, D' Aguilar, you're wrong ! 
Alonzo Olivarez — ^rouse, thee, man ! 
Lay down the wine-pot for a moment's space, 
There's a brawl here ! 

OLIVAREZ. 

I wish you fellows would keep quiet, and not inter- 
rupt drinking. It is a very disagreeable thing for 
a sober man to be disturbed over his liquor. I sup- 
pose you are quite aware that I can throw the 
whole of you over the window in a minute. My 
opinion is that you are a couple of bloody fools. 
I don't know what you are quarrelling about, but 
I won't stand any nonsense. 



FIRMILIAN. 51 



FIRMILIAN. 

You struck me, sir ? 



I did. 



FIEMILIAN. 



And you're aware, 
Of course, of what the consequence must be. 
Unless you tender an apology ? 



Of course I am. 

FIRMILIAN. 

Madman ! wouldst thou provoke 
The slide o' the avalanche ? 



62 FTRMILIAN. 



I wait its fall 
Lc perfect calmness. 



FIRMILIAN. 



O thou rash young lord ! 
Beware in time ! A hurricane of wrath 
Is raging in my soul — If it burst forth, 
'Twere better for thee that within the waste 
Thou met'st a ravening tigress, or wert bound 
In a lone churchyard where hyaenas prowl ! 
I may forget myself ! 



Small chance of that. 
Words are your weapons, and you wield them well ; 
But gentlemen, when struck, are not in lise 
To rail like muleteers. You wear a sword, sir ! 



FIRMILIAN. 53 



PEREZ. 

Are you mad, D'Aguilar, to court a brawl 
Within the college precincts ! Olivarez — 
Set down the flagon, and bestir thee, man ; 
This must not be ! 

FIRMILIAiq-. , 

Nay, Perez, stand thou back — 
He hath provoked his fate, and he must die. 

{Draws.) 

OLIVABEZ. 

I'll score the first man that makes a thrust, over 
the costard with this pint-pot ! If you needs must 
fight, fight like gentlemen in the open air, and at 
a reasonable hour. What right has either of you 
to disturb the conviviality of the evening ? 

FIRMILIAN. 

A blow — a blow ! I have received a blow — 



54: FIRMILIAN. 

My soul's athirst for vengeance, and I'll have it I 
Come not between the lion and his prey. 

OLIVAEEZ. 

To the devil with your lions ! I suppose you think 
it safe enough to roar now? Once for all, if you 
can't settle this matter without fighting, fix some 
hour to-morrow morning, and take your fill of it. 
But here you shall not fight. What say you, Al- 
phonzo ? 

He hath the blow, so let him speak the first. 

FIRMILTAN. 

Agreed ! Until to-morrow, then, I'll keep 
My rage unsated. Let the hour be eight ; 
The place, the meadow where the stream turns round 
Beside the cork-trees ; and for witnesses, 
Perez and Olivarez. D'Aguilar — 



FIRMiLIAN. 65 

If I should fail thee at the rendezvous, 
Perpetual shame and infamy be mine ! 



Agreed ! And I rejoice to hear thee speak 
So manfully. If I have done thee wrong, 
I'll give thee satisfaction with my sword : 
You show at least a nobler temper now. 

FIRMILIAN. 

Fail you not, D'Aguilar — /"shall not fail. 

OLIVAEEZ. 

Well — all that is comfortably adjusted, and just 
as it should be. Let's have some more wine — this 
talking makes a man thirsty. 

PEKEZ. 

N^o more for me. 



66 FIKMILIAN. 

FIRMILTAN. 

Your pardon — I'd provided 
fN"ot dreaming of this hot dispute to-night), 
Some flasks of rarest wine — 'Tis Ildefonso, 
Of an old vintage. I'll not leave them here 
To be a perquisite unto our host ; 
And, lest our early parting hence should breed 
Suspicion of to-morrow, let us stay 
And drink another cup. You, D'Aguilar, 
Whose sword must presently be crossed with mine. 
Will not refuse a pledge ? 

d'aguilar. 

Not I, in faith ! 
Now you have shown your mettle, I regard you 
More than I did before. 

FIKMILIAN. 

Fill then your cups. 
Nay, to the brim — the toast requires it, sirs. 
Here's to the King ! 



FIKMILIAN. 57 



OMNES. 



The King ! 



FIKMILIAN. 

Fill up again — 
'Tis my last pledge. 

OLIVAREZ. 

Why don't you help yourself? The wine is capital, 

FIRMILIAN. 

My goblet's full. Drink to another King, 
Whose awful aspect doth o'erawe the world — 
The conqueror of conquerors — the vast 
But unseen monarch to whose sceptre bow 
The heads of kings and beggars ! 

PEREZ. 

That's the Pope ! 



58 FIKMILIAN. 

FIRMILIAN. 

No — not the Pope — but he that humbleth Popes. 
Drink to King Death !^ — You stare, and stand 

amazed — 
O, you have much mista'en me, if you think 
That some slight spurting of Castilian blood, 
Or poet's ichor, can suffice to lay 
The memory of to-night's affront asleep ! 
Death hath been sitting with us all the night, 
Glaring through hollow eye-holes — to the doomed 
He is invisible, but I have seen him 
Point with his fleshless finger! But no more — 
Farewell ! — I go : and if you chance to hear 
A passing-bell — be it a comfort to you ! 
At eight to-morrow I shall keep my time. 
See you are there ! lExit. 

PEREZ. 

I think the fellow's mad ! 
I held him even as a mere poltroon ; 



FIRMILIAN. 59 

But that same blow of your's, Alphonzo — 'faith, 
'Twas wrong in you to give it — hath prevailed, 
Like steel against a flint. He shows some fire. 
And seems in deadly earnest — what's the matter? 

d'aguilar. 
Don't ask — I'm sick and faint. 

OLIVAREZ. 

I'm not drunk, I am sure — but I have the strangest 
throbbing in my temples. Do you think you could 
get a waiter or two to carry me home ? I feel as 
cold as a cucumber. 

PEREZ. 

My brain swims too. Hark ! what is that without? 

\Tlie Passing-hell tolls ^ and Monks are heard 
chaunting the Penitential Psalms. Slow and 
wailing inusic as the scene closes.^ 



^^ F I R M I L I A N . 



SCENE lY. 
Cloisters. Enter Firmilian. 

This was a splendid morning ! The dew lay 

In amplest drops upon the loaded grass, 

And filled the buttercups hard by the phice 

Where I expected fiery D'Aguilar. 

He did not come. Well — I was there at least, 

And waited for an hour beyond the time, 

During which while I studied botany. 

And yet my proud opponent showed no face ! 

Pshaw ! to myself I'll be no hypocrite — 

If Raymond Lully lied not, they are dead, 

And I have done it ! {A pause.) 

How is this ? My mind 
Is light and jocund. Yesternight I deemed. 
When the dull passing-bell announced the fate 
Of those insensate and presumptuous fools, 



FIRMILIAN. 61 

That, as a vulture lisrhts on carrion, flesh 
With a shrill scream and flapping of its wings, 
Keen-beaked Remorse would settle on my soul, 
And fix her talons there. She did not come ; 
J^ay, stranger still — methought the passing-bell 
Was but the prelude to a rapturous strain 
Of highest music, that entranced me quite. 
For sleep descended on me, as it falls 
Upon an infant'in its mother's arms, 
And all night long 1 dreamed of Indiana. 
What ! is Remorse a fable after all — 
A mere invention, as the Harpies were. 
Or crazed Orestes' furies ? Or have I 
Mista'en the ready way to lure her down ? 
There are no beads of sweat upon my brow — 
My clustering hair maintains its wonted curl, 
Nor rises horrent, as a murderer's should. 
I do not shudder, start, nor scream aloud — 
Tremble at every sound — grow ghastly pale 



o2 FIRMILIAN. 

When a leaf falls, or when a lizard stirs. 

I do not wring my fingers from their joints, 

Or madlj thrust them quite into my ears 

To bar the echo of a dying groan. 

And, after all, what is there to regret ? 

Three fools have died carousing as they lived, 

And nature makes no special moan for them. 

If I have gained no knowledge by this deed, 

I have lost none. The subtle alchemist, 

Whose Jiim is the elixir, or that stone 

The to^ich whereof makes baser metals gold. 

Must needs endure much failure, ere he finds 

The grand Arcanum. So is it with me. 

I have but shot an idle bolt away. 

And need not seek it further. Who comes here ? 

Enter a Priest ana a Graduate. 

-GRADUATE. 

Believe me, father, they are all accurs'd ! 
These marble garments of the ancient Gods, 



FIKMILIAN. 63 

Wliich the blaspheming hand of Babylon 
Hath gathered out of ruins, and hath raised 
In this her dark extremity of sin ; 
Not in the hour when she was sending forth 
Her champions to the highway and the field, 
To pine in deserts and to writhe in flame — 
But in the scarlet frontage of her guilt. 
When, not with purple only, but with blood, 
"Were the priests vested, and their festive cups 
Foamed with the hemlock rather than the wine ! 
Call them not Churches, father — call them prisons ; 
And yet not such as bind the body in. 
But gravestones of the soul ! For, look you, sir, 
Beneath that weight of square-cut weary stone 
A thousand workmen's souls are pent alive ! 
And therefore I declare them all accurs'd. 



PRIEST. 



Peace, son ! thou ravest. 



64 FIRMILIAN. 

GRADUATE. 

Do I rave indeot. ? 
So raved the Prophets when they told the truth 
To Israel's stubborn councillors and kings — 
So raved Cassandra, when in Hector's ear 
She shrieked the presage of his coming fall. 
I am a prophet also — and I say 
That o'er those stones wherein you place your pride 
Annihilation waves her dusky wing ; 
Yea, do not marvel if the earth itself. 
Like a huge giant, weary of the load, 
Should heave them from its shoulders. 1 have said it. 
It is my purpose, and they all shall down ! 

[Exit. 

PRIEST. 

Alas, to see a being so distraught ! 

And yet there may be danger in his words,- 

For heresy is rife. Ha ! who is this ? 



FIRMTLIAN. 65 

If 1 mistake not, 'tis Firmilian, 
Mine ancient pnpil ! 

FIRMILIAN. 

And he craves your blessing ! 

PRIEST. 

Thou hast it, son. Kow tell me — didst thou hear 
The words yon Graduate uttered ere he left ? 
Methought his speech was levelled at the Church. 

FIRMILIAN. 

I heard him say all Churches should be levelled ; 
That they were built on souls ; that earth would rise 
To shake them from its shoulders ; and he railed 
At Mother Rome, and called* her Babylon. 
My ears yet tingle with the impious sounds. 

PRIEST. 

Ha — did he so ? By holy Nicholas, 



Q6 FIRMILIAN. 

I'll have him straight reported ! Dost thou think, 
Good son Firmilian, he deviseth anght 
Against the Church, or us her ministers ? 

FIRMILIAN. 

I do suspect him very grievously. 

PRIEST. 

And so do I. We hold a festival 
On Tuesday next, when the Inquisitor 
Is certain to be present — it were best 
Ere then to give him notice. Who shall say 
Tliat, like another Samson, this vile wretch 
May not drag down the pillars of the Church 
And whelm u-s all in ruin ? I am bound 
To see to that. Son — Benedicite ! 

[Bxit 

FIRMILIAN. 

On Tuesday next, when the Inquisitor 



FIRMILIAN. 67 

Is certain to be present ?— Lilian's uncle ? 
That were an opportunity too rare 
To be allowed to pass ! For this same priest — 
. He is my old preceptor, and instilled, 
By dint of frequent and remorseless stripes 
Applied at random to my childish rear, 
Some learning into me. I owe him much, 
* And fain I would repay it- Ha — ha — ha ! 
What a dull creature was that Graduate 
To blurt his folly out ! If a church falls 
Within the next ten years in Badajoz, 
Nay, if a single stone should tumble down, 
Or a stray pebble mutilate the nose 
Of some old saint within a crumbling niche, 
His life will pay the forfeit. As he spoke, 
Methought I saw the solid vaults give way. 
And the entire cathedral rise in air. 
As if it leaped from Pandemonium's jaws. 
But that's a serious matter. I have time 
To meditate the deed. These cloister walks 



68 



FIBMILIAN. 



Are dull and cheerless, and my spirit pants 
For kind emotion. Let me pass from hence 
And wile away an hour with Lilian. 



F I K M I L I A N . 69 



SCENE Y. 
A Wine Shop. I^icodemus cmd Two Familiars. 

NICODEMUS. 

Not a drop more, gentlemen, if you love me ! 

FIRST FAMILIAR. 

Nonsense, man ! We have not had as much as 
would satisfy the thirst of a chicken. Another 
stoup here ! And now tell us a little more about 
your master. 

NICODEMUS. 

Aha, sirs ! He^s an odd one, is Senor Firmilian. 

FIRST FAMILIAR. 

A devil among the wenches, I suppose ? 



To F I R M I r. I A N . 

NICODEMUS. 

Hum for that, sir ! I hope I am not the man to 
betray confidence. What I see, I behold ; and 
what I behold I can keep to myself ; and there's 
enough on't. What have you black-coated gentry 
to do with the daughters of Eve ? 

FIRST FAMILIAR. 

Nay, no ofi'ence meant. Master Nicodemus — ^you 
are sharper than Pedrillo's razor ! What — young 
blood will have its way ! But you are happy in 
serving, as I hear, the most promising student in 
Badajoz. 

NICODEMUS. 

Serving, sir ? Marry come up ! I'd have you 
know that I am his secretary. 

SECOND FAMILIAR. 

Aha ! Your health, Master Secretary ! I fear me 
you have heavy labor. 



F I K M I L I A N . 71 

NICODEMUS. 

Don't speak of it ! If you knew what I have tc 
do — the books I have to translate from the Coptic, 
Latin, Welsh, and other ancient languages — you'd 
pity me. I sometimes wish I had never been 
familiar with foreign tongues. Learning, my mas- 
ters, is no inheritance. And then, when you come 
to deal with the Black Art — 

SECOND FAMILIAR. 

Enlighten us. Master Secretary — what is that ? 

NICODEMUS. 

The Black Art ? Here is your very good health ! — 
I wish you could see my master's room, after he has 
been trying to call up the devil ! Lord, sir ! there's 
no end of skulls, and chalk marks on the floor, and 
stench of sulphur, and what not — but I don't believe 
that, with all his pains, he ever brought the devil up 



72 FIRMILIAN. 

SECOND FAMILIAR. 

Take another cup. — But he tries it sometimes ? 

NICODEMUS. 

Punctually upon Wednesdays — about midnight, 
when the whole household have gone to sleep, 
"^ut he's not up to the trick : he never could raise 
anything larger than a hedge-hog. 

^ FIRST FAMILIAR. 

But he has done that, has he ? 

NICODEMUj. 

Of course ! Any one can raise a hedge-hog. But 
I'm not going to sit here all night seeing you 
drinking. I must go home to translate Plotinus, 
who was a respectable father of the Latin Church. 
Take my advice and go home too — you are both 
rather drunk. Where's my beaver ? Don't attempt 



FIRMILIAN. ' 73 

to ofter me two, in case I put the phantom one on 
my head. I say — if there is a drop remaining in 
the bottle, you might offer it by way of courtesy. 
Thanks, and take care of yourselves. [Exit, 

FIRST FAMILIAR. 

What say you to this story ? A clearer proof 
Of arrant sorcery was never given 
Unto the Holy oflBce. 

SECOND FAMILIAR. 

It is complete. 
He raises hedge-hogs ! That's enough for me. 

\JExeunt, 



74 F I R M I L I A N . 



sce:ne yi. 

Exterior of the Cathedral of St. 1N"icholas. 
Choir heard chaunting within. 

Miter FiRMILIAN. 

How darkly hangs yon cloud above the spire ! 
There's thunder in the air — 

What if the flash 
Should rend the solid walls, and reach the vault. 
Where my terrestial thunder lies prepared, 
And so, without the action of my hand, 
Whirl up those thousand bigots in its blaze. 
And leave me guiltless, save in the intent. 

That were a vile defraudment of my aim. 
A petty larceny o' the element. 
An interjection of exceediiig wrong ! 



FIRMILIAN. »0 

Let the hoarse thunder rend the vault of heaven, 
i^ea, shake the stars by myriads from their boughs, 
As Autumn tempests shake the fruitage down ; — 
Let the red lightning shoot athwart the sky, 
Entangling comets by their spooming hair, 
Piercing tlie zodiac belt, and carrying dread 
To old Orion, and his whimpering hound ; — 
But let the glory of this deed be mine ! 

ORGAN and CHOIR. 

Sublimatus ad honorem 

!N"icholai presulis : 
Pietatis ante rorem 

Cunctis pluit populis : 
Ut vix parem aut majorem 

Habeat in seculis. 

FIRMILIAN. 

Yet I could weep to hear the wretches sing ! 
There rolls the organ anthem down the aisle, 



76 FIRMILIAN. 

And thousand voices join in its acclaim. 

All they are happy — they are on their knees ; 

Round and above them stare the images 

Of antique saints and martyrs. Censors steam 

With their Arabian charge of frankincense, 

And every heart, with inward fingers, counts 

A blissful rosary of pious prayer ! 

Why should they perish, then ? Is't yet too late' 

O shame, Firmilian, on thy coward soul ! 
What ! thou, the poet ! — thou, whose mission 'tis 
To send vibration down the chord of tim.e. 
Until its junction with eternity — 
Thou, who hast dared and pondered and endured, 
Gathering by piecemeal all the noble thoughts 
And tierce sensations of the mind — as one 
Who in a garden culls the wholesome rose, 
And binds it with the deadly nightshade up ; 
Flowers not akin, and yet, by contrast kind — 
Thou, for a touch of what these mundane fools 
Whine of as pity, to forego thine aim. 



F I E M 1 H A N . 77 

And never feel the gnawing of remorse, 

Like tlie Promethean vulture on the spleen, 

That shall instruct thee to give future voice 

To the unuttered agonies of Cain ! 

Thou, to compare, with that high consequence 

The breath of some poor thousand knights and 

knaves. 
Who soaring, in the welkin, shall expire ! 
Shame, shame, Firmilian ! on thy weakness, shame ! 

ORGAN and CHOIR. 

Auro dato violari 

Yirgines prohibuit : 
Far in fame, vas in mari 

Servat et distribuit : 
Qui timebant naufragari 

Nautis opem tribuit. 

FIRMILIAN. 

A right good saint he seems, this K'icholas ! 



78 FIRMILIAN. 

And over-worked too, if the praise be just. 
Which these, his votaries, quaver as his claim. 
Yet it is odd he should o'erlook the fact 
That underneath this church of his are stored 
Some twenty barrels of the dusty grain, 
The secret of whose framing, in an hour 
Of diabolic jollity and mirth, 
Old Roger Bacon wormed from Beelzebub ! 
He might keep better wardship for his friends ; 
But that to me is nothing. Now's the time ! 
Ha! as I take the matchbox in my hand, 
A spasm pervades me, and a natural thrill 
As though my better genius were at hand, 
And strove to pluck me backwards by the hair. 
I must be resolute. Lose this one chance, 
Which bears me to th' Acropolis of guilt. 
And this, our age, forgoes its noblest song. 
I must be speedy — 



FIRMILIAN. 7y 

ORGAN and CHOIR. 

A defunctis suscitatur 
Furtum qui coinmiserat * 

Et Judseus baptizatur 
Fiirtum qui recuperat : 

Illi vita restauratur, 
Hie ad fidem properat. 

FiRMILIAlf. 

ISlo more was needed to confirm my mind ; 
That stanza blows all thoughts of pity off, 
As empty straws are scattered by the wind ! 
For I have been the victim of the Jews, 
Who, by vile barter, have absorbed my means. 
Did I not pawn — for that same flagrant stuff, 
Which only waits a spark to be dissolved, 
And, having done its mission, must disperse 
As a thin §moke into the ambient air — 
My diamond cross, my goblet, and my books ? 



^^ FIKMILIAN. 

What ! would they venture to baptize the Jew 2 
The cause assumes a holier aspect, then ; 
And, as a faithful son of Rome, I dare 
To merge my darling passion in the wrong 
That is projected against Christendom ! 
Pity, avaunt ! I may not longer stay. 

[Msit into the vaults. A short pause^ 
after which he reappears. 
'Tis doup ' I vanish like the lightning bolt. 

ORGAN and CHOIR. 

Nicholai sacerdotum 

Decus, honor, gloria : 
Plebem omnem, clerum totum — 

\The Cathedral is hloion up.'] 



FTRMILIAN. 81 



SCENE yu. 

Saloon. Pall and Coffin. 

Enter Countess, Confessor, Haverillo, am.d 
Attendants. 

confessor 

Weep not, dear lady — he is now at rest ! 

Nor thundering cannon, nor loud-booming drum, 

JSTor braying trumpet, nor the clarion's call, 

Nor rapid crash of charging chivalry. 

Can stir him from his sleep. For him no more 

Hath the lewd tinkling of the amorous lute 

Behind a twilight lattice, or the wave 

Of a light kerchief in a stealthy hand, 

Or lifting of dark eyelids, any charm ! 

"No more shall he, in joyous revelry. 

Ply the loose wine cup, or exchange the jest — 

And therefore, I beseech you,' drv vour tears. 
4* 



b2 FIKMILIAN. 

HAVERiLLO. {Aside.) 

Why, what a ghostly comforter is this ! 
He tells her nothing of the yet to be, 
But only harps upon the aching past. 

CONFESSOR. 

Bear np that coffin ! Grief hath had its scope, 

And now 'tis time to pause. Bethink thee, lady, 

How it may fare with thine Alphonzo's soul. 

There's no rich clothing in the world beyond, 

No jewell'd cups, no sparkling costly gems, 

No rare display of silver and of gold 

Such as your sideboards show on gala-days — 

But the poor spirit, shivering and alone, 

On the cold sea-beach of eternity. 

Must shriek for help to those he left behind. 

gr^y — shall Alphonzo plead to thee in vain ? 



FIRM 1 LI AN. 83 



COUNTESS. 



man — man — man ! Thy prating drives me mad- 
riij hideous voice is loathsome to mine ear, 
Albeit I know not what thou croakest there ! 
Set down the coffin — set it down, I say ! 

1 have not yet wept half the flood of tears 
That I must pour on my Alphonzo's head. 
There's a hot deluge seething in my brain. 
And I must give it leave to flow, or die ! 

HAVERILLO. 

Poor lady, she is greatly moved ! 'Twere best 
To give her passion way. Bethink you, Sir ; 
A mother rarely will with patience hear 
A true reproach against a living son, 
Far less a taunt directed at the dead. 

CONFESSOR. 

Who's he that dares usurp my privilege, 



84: FIRMILIAN. 

Or question my discretion ? Is't for thee, 
Thou silken moth, to flutter round the torch 
Of conscience, flaming in a Churchman's hands 
And try to smother it ? What art thou, sirrah ? 
I warrant me some kinsman, with an eye 
To those vast hoards of molten vanity. 
Which can alone relieve Alphonzo's soul 
Under the guidance of our holy Church. 
Out on thee, heretic ! 

HAVERILLO. 

Presumptuous priest ! 
Wer't thou unfrocked, I'd tell thee that thou liest. 

CONFESSOR. 

Hence, vile disturber of the hapless dead ! 
Thou enemy of souls — thou sordid knave. 
That, for a paltry pittance to thyself, 
Wouldst bar the gates of Paradise to him 
Who lies beneath yon pall ! What, caitiff wretch ! 



FIRMILIAN. 85 

Wilt thou again presume to answer me ? 
Let but a word escape thy tainted lips, 
And the most fell anathema of Rome, 
From w^hich there neither is appeal nor cure, 
Shall fulmine on thy head ! 

As for thee, lady — 
If thou regardest him whom thou hast lost 
With holier feeling than the tigress shows 
When, in her savage and blood-boltered den. 
She moans above the carcass of her cubs — 
Consume no more the precious hours in grief ; 
Each hour is precious to a soul in pain ! 
Give me the keys of all thy coffered wealth, 
That, with a liberal hand, I may dispense 
Thy hoarded angels to the suffering poor. 
Thy jewels also — what hast thou to do 
With earthly jewels more ? — give them to me ; 
And for each brilliant thou shalt hear a mass 
Sung for Alphonzo. Fie on filthy pride ! 
Is't meet a widow's house should hold such store 



86 FIRMILIAN. 

Of flagons, cups, and costly chalices. 
Of massive salvers and ancestral bowls ? 
These are the subtile spider- threads of sin 
That bind the soul to earth. Away with them ! 
Thou hast no children now. 

COUNTESS. 

Thou crawling wretch — 
Thou holy lie — thou gilded sepulchre — 
Thou most consummate hypocrite and knave ! 
How darest thou take measure of my grief 
With thine unnatural hands ? What ! thou a priest, 
And, in the hour of desolation, seek'st 
For ransom to be paid in gems and gold 
For a pure spirit, which, beside thine own. 
Would show as glorious as an angel's form 
Contrasted with an Ethiopian slave ! 
What are thy prayers, that I should purchase them ? 
Hast thou not fed, for twenty years and more. 
Upon the liberal bounty of our house ? 



F I R M I L I A N . 87 

Have I not seen thee flatter and deceive ; 

Fawn like a spaniel ; and, with readiest lie, 

Make coverture of thine obscene attempts 

Upon my handmaids ? Yillain ! there they stand, 

The blushing proofs of thine impurity. 

Hast thou not stroked my lost Alphonzo's head 

A thousand times, protesting that no youth 

Gave ever promise of a fairer course ? 

And wouldst thou now retract that word of thine, 

And, in the presence of my blighted flower, 

Deny the glorious perfume that it bore ? 

get thee gone ! thou mak'st me wrong the dead, 
By w^asting moments, consecrate to tears. 

In idle railing at a wretch like thee ! 

CONFESSOR. 

This is mere madness ! ' Think not to escape. 

By angry words and frantic declamation, 

The righteous claims of the defrauded Cliurch, 

1 stir not hence until her dues are paid. 



88 FIRMILIAN. 

If thou withhold'st thy keys, I warn thee, lady, 
That holy Peter will not turn his key 
For any of thy race ! 

COUNTESS. 

Thou cormorant 
That screamest still for garbage ! take thy fill, 
And rid me of thy presence. Fabian — 
Show him the secret chamber of the Cid, 
"Wherein the ransom of the Moors is piled : 
There is the key — and let him never more 
Pollute my threshold ! O my lost Alphonzo ! 

{Swoons.) 

CONFESSOR. 

Ho, ho ! I have it now ! The key, the key ! 
Come quickly. Master Steward ! 

\Exit Scene closes.. 



.FIRMILIAN. 89 

SCENE YIII. 

A Gallery. At the end an armed figure hearing a 
mace. 

Enter Confessok (^tk^. Fabian. 

COXFKSSOR. 

I warrant me thou tliinkest, Master Steward, 
That I was over urgent with thy dame. 
There are some natures, sir, so obstinate 
That mildness will not stir them, and for these 
The Church enjoins a wholesome stimulant. 
Such is your lady. 

FABIAN. 

You are learned, sir. 
And doubtless know your duty. Here's the chamber. 

CONFESSOE. 

What mean you, fellow ? There is nothing here 



90 FIRMILIAN. 

Except an e^gj in rusted mail. 

Beware of trifling with the Holy Church ! 

FABIAN. 

That is the guardian of the treasure-room. 

I see you marvel — Listen. Long ago, 

Pedro, the founder of this ancient house, 

"Was the dear friend and comrade of the Cid. 

Often together in the battle-field 

Did they two charge the squadrons of the Moor, 

And mow the stalwart unbelievers down. 

Seldom they spared a life — yet once, by chance, 

The cali23h of Baldracca crossed their path, 

Him they to(>k captive, with three princes more. 

And made them stand to ransom. All the East, 

As I have heard — Chaldea, Araby, 

Fez, Tunis, India, and the far Cathay — 

Was racked for tribute. From the Persian gulf 

There came huge bags of large and lustrous pearl 

Which in the miry bottom of the sea 



FIB MIL IAN. 91 

The breathless diver found. Then there were opals 
Bright as young moons, and diamonds like stars, 
Far-blazing rubies, gorgeous carbuncles, 
Jacinths and sapphires. And with these tlieru came 
Ten camel-loads of curious workmanship, 
All wrought in solid gold — a greater ransom 
Than ever yet was tendered for a king ! 

CONFESSOR. 

Thy words have oped a fountain in my mouth, 
And stirred its waters ! Excellent Fabian — 
So half this wealth accrued to D'Aguilar ? 

FABIAN. 

Of that, anon. When all the heap was piled 
Before them, then the Campeador said : — 
" May not my sin lie heavy on my soul 
Upon my dying day ! For I have broke 
A vow I made in youth before the shrine 
Of San lago, never in the field 



92 FIRMILIAN. 

To spare a heathen. What is done, is done — 
May be atoned for, but not- blotted out. 
I will not touch the ransom. Be it given 
Entire to thee, my brother D'Aguilar !" 

CONFESSOE. 

No wonder Spain still glories in the Cid ! 

What ! are the treasures here ? Speak quickly, man I 

FABIAK. 

Your patience for a moment ! When the knight 

Found no persuasion could affect the Cid, 

Or sway him from his purpose, then he yielded. 

One half the ransom bought the goodly lands 

Which still pertain unto the D'Aguilars. 

The other half lies in a secret room, 

The door of which I'll show you — you've the key. 

But first I'll tell you why yon effigy 

Stands there to guard it. 



FIRMILIAN. 93 

CONFESSOR. 

What is that to me ? 
What do I care about your effigies, 
Or mumbled stories of the knights of old ? 
The door, I say 1 

FABIAN. 

Yet listen — 'Tis my duty 
To make this clear. When Ruy Diaz died. 
The knight of D'Aguilar obtained his arms ; 
And in remembrance of the bounteous gift 
He placed them there before the treasure-room. 
'Tis said the mighty spirit of Bivar * 

Still dwells within that corslet ; and the mace, 
Which once was called the hammer of the Moor, 
Is swayed on high, and will descend on those 
Who come to wrong the race of D'Aguilar. 
I've heard my father tell, that, ere my birth. 
Two reckless villains of Gitano blood. 
Lured by the rumor of the treasured wealth, 



9'J: * F 1 K M I L I A N . 

Tried, over night, to force that secret door ; 
And, in the morning, when the servants came. 
They found a brace of battered carcases, 
The skulls beat into pulp, upon the floor ; 
And yonder mace — how terrible it is ! 
Was dropping with their blood ! 

CONFESSOR. 

And dost thou thinly 
With thy false legends to deter me now, 
Thou paralytic slave ? Eeserve thy tales 
For gaping crones, and idle serving-men ! 
Cau I not make an image stare and wink, 
Exhibit gesture with its painted hands. 
Yea, counterfeit the action of a saint — 
And dost thou hope to scare me with a lie 
Where is the door, I say ? 

FABIAN. 

Bear witness, Saints, 



F I R M T L I A N . 95 

That I am sackless of the consequence ! 
You. are forewarned — 

CONFESSOR. 

The door — the door, I say I 

FABIAN. 

Insert the key beneath that pannel there I 

CONFESSOR. 

So — it is mine, all mine ! Why, now am I 

A king of Ind, an emperor of the earth ! 

No haste, no haste ! — I wouh] not lose the thrili 

Of expectation that entrances me 

For half the glorious heap that's stored within ! 

A¥hy, for a handful of those orient pearls 

I'll buy a bishopric. A dozen rubies 

May make me Metropolitan ; and then, 

A.S gems are scarce and highly prized at Rome, . 

A costly diamond for the noble front 

Of the Tiara, may advance my claim 



90 FIRMILIAN. 

Unto the title of a Cardinal — 

Let me take breath — Lord Cardinal — a Prince 

And Magnate of the Church ! What follows next? 

Brain, do not lose thyself in ecstasy, 

Kor swim to madness at the thought of that 

Which lies within my reach — Saint Peter's chair ! 

Why, half the wealth within this hidden vault 

Would bribe the Holy College, and would make 

Me — me, the lord of monarchs, and the chief 

Of all the rulers over Christendom ! 

Ha, ha ! to see the mighty world lie down 

In homage at my feet, and hear its hail 

To me as lord and master ! 

Is't a dream ? 
Oh, no, no, no ! for here, within my hand, 
I hold the precious key that shall at once 
Admit me to the temple of my hope — 
Open, old wards, to him who shall be Pope ! 
[Se atteinjpts to open the Door^ and is struck 
down hy the Mace of the Effigy, '] 



FIRMILIAN. 97 



FABIAN. 



Right little moaning need I make for one 

Who died by liis own sin ! Poor prostrate fool, 

Whom warning would not reach ! Six feet of earth 

Is all that even Popes can claim as theirs. 

Thy span must yet be less : no funeral bell 

May toll for thee — I'll drop thee in a well. 
< 

[Exit with the lody. 



98 FIRMILIAN. 



SCEISTE IX. 
Summit of the Pillar of St. Simeon Stylites, 

FIRMILIAN. 

'Twas a grand spectacle ! The solid earth 
Seemed from its quaking entrails to eruct 
The gathered lava of a thousand years, 
Like an imposthume bursting up from hell ! 
In a red robe of flame, tne riven towers, 
Pillars and altar, organ-ioft and screen. 
With a singed swarm of mortals intermixed. 
Were whirled in anguish to the shuddering stars, 
And all creation trembled at the din. 
It was my doing — mine alone ! and I 
Stand greater by this deed than the vain fool 
That thrust his torch beneath Diana's shrine. 
For what was it inspired Erostratus 



FIKMILIAN. 99 

Bat a weak vanity to have his name 

Blaze out for arson in the catalogue ? 

I have been wiser. 'No man knows the name 

Of me, the pyrotechnist who have given 

A new apotheosis to the saint 

With lightning blast, and stunning thunder knell I 

And yet — and yet — what boots the sacrilice ? 
I thought to take remorse unto my heart, 
As the young Spartan hid the savage fox 
Beneath the foldings of his boyish gown, 
And let it rive his flesh. Mine is not riven — 
My heart is 3^et unscarred. I've been too coarse 
And general in this business. Had there been 
Amongst that multitude a single man 
Who loved me, cherished me — to whom I owed 
Sweet reciprocity for holy alms. 
And gifts of gentle import — had there been 
Friend — father — brother, mingled in that crowd. 
And I had slain him — then indeed my soul 
Might have acquired fruition of its wish, 



100 FIRMILIAN. 

And shrieked delirious at the taste of sin ! 
But these — what were the victims unto me ? 
l^othing! Mere human atoms, breathing clods, 
Uninspired duUards, unpoetic slaves, 
The rag, and tag, and bobtail of mankind ; 
Who-m, having scorched to cinders, I no more 
Feel ruth for what I did, tlian if my hand 
Had tln-ust a stick of sulphur in the nest 
Of some poor hive of droning humble-bees, 
And smoked them into science ! 

I mnst have 
A more potential draught of guilt than this, 
With more of wormwood in it ! 

Here I sit, 
Perched like a raven on old Simeon's shaft. 
With barely needful footing for my limbs — 
And one is climbing up the inward coil, 
Who was my friend and brother. We have gazed 
Together on the midnight map of heaven, 
And marked the gems in Cassiopea's hair — 



FI RMI L I AN. 101 

Together have we heard the nightingale 

Waste tlie exuberant music of her throat, 

And lull the flustering breezes into calm — 

Together have we emulously sung 

Of Hjacinthus, Daphne, and the rest 

Whose moiM:al weeds Apollo changed to flowers 

Also from him I have derived much aid 

In golden ducats, which I fain would pay 

Back with extremest usury, were but 

Mine own convenience equal to my wish. 

Moreover, of his poems he hath sold 

Two full editions of a thousand each. 

While mine remain neglected on the shelves ! 

Courage, Firmilian ! for the hour has come 

When thou canst know atrocity indeed, 

By smiting him that was thy dearest friend. 

And think not that he dies a vulgar death — 

'Tis poetry demands the sacrifice ! 

Yet not to him be that revealment made. 

He must not know with what a loving hand — 



102 FIRMILIAN. 

With what fraternal charity of heart 

I do devote him to the infernal gods ! 

I dare not spare him one particular pang, 

"Nor make the struggle briefer ! Hush — he comes, 

Havekillo, emerging from the staircase. 

How now, Firmilian !— I am scant of breath ; 
These steps have pumped the ether from my lungs, 
And made the bead-droj^s cluster on my brow. 
A strange, unusual rendezvous is this — 
An old saint's pillar, which no human foot 
Hath scaled this hundred years ! 

FIRMILIAN. 

Ay — it is strange ! 

HAVEEILLO. 

'Faith, sir, the bats considered it as such : 
They seem to flourish in the column here, 



FIKMILIAN. 103 

And are not over courteous. Ha ! I'm weary : 
I shall sleep sound to-night. 

FIRMILIAN. 

You shall sleep sound ! 

HAVERILLO. 

Either there is an echo in the place, 
Or your voice is sepulchral. 

FIKMILIAN. 

Seems it so ? 

HAVERILLO. 

Come, come, Firmilian — Be once more a man ! 

Leave off these childish tricks, and vapors bred 

Out of a too much pampered faiitasy. 

What are we, after all, but mortal men, 

Who eat, drink, sleep, need raiment and the like. 



104 FIRMILIAN. 

As well as any jolterhead alive ? 

Trust me, my friend, we cannot feed on dreams. 

Or stay the hungry cravings of the maw 

By mere poetic banquets. 

FIRMILIAN. 

Say you so ? 
Yet have I heard that by some alchemy 
(To me unknown as yet) you have transmuted 
Your verses to fine gold. 

HAVERLLLO. 

And all that gold 
Was lent to you, Firmilian. 

FIRMILIAN. 

You expect, 
Doubtless, I will repay you ? 



FTKMILIAN. 105 



HAVERILLO 

So I do. 
You told me yesterday to meet you here, 
And you would pay me. back with interest. 
Here is the note. 

FIKMILIAN. 

A moment. — Do you see 
Yon melon-vender's stall down i' the square ? 
Methinks the fruit that, close beside the eye. 
Would show as largely as a giant's head. 
Is dwindled to a heap of gooseberries ! 
If Justice held no bigger scales than those 
Yon pigmy seems to balance in his hands, 
Her utmost fiat scarce would weigh a drachm 
How say you ? 

HAVEEILLO. 

Nothing — 'tis a fearful height 
5* 



10(i FIKMILIAN. 

My brain turns dizzy as I gaze below, 
And there's a strange sensation in my soles. 

FIRMILIAN. 

Ay — feel you that? Ixion felt the same 
Ere he was whirled from heaven ! 

HAVERILLO. ' 

Firmilian ! 
You carry this too far. Farewell. We'll meet 
When you're in better humor. 

FIRMILIAN. 

Tarry, sir ! 
I have you here, and thus we shall not part. 
I know your meaning well. For that same dross. 
That paltry ore of Mammon's mean device 
Which I, to honor you, stooped to receive. 
You'd set the Alguazils on my heels ! 
What ! have I read your thought? * J^ay, never 
shrink, 



FIRM I LI AN. 107 

Nor edge towards the doorway ! You're a scholar ! 
How was't with Phaeton ? 

HAVEEILLO. 

Alas ! he's mad. 
Hear me, Firmilian ! Here is the receipt — 
Take it— I grudge it not ! If ten times more, 
It were at your sweet service. 

FIRMILIAN. • 

Would you do' 
This kindness unto me ? 

HAVERILLO. 

Most willingly. 

FIRMILIAN. 

Liar and slave 1 There's falsehood in thine eye I 
I read as clearly there, as in a book, 
That, if I did allow you to escape, 



108 F I R M I L I A N. 

In fifteen minutes you would seek the judge. 
Therefore, prepare thee, for thou needs must die ! 

HAVEKILLO. 

Madman — stand ofi:'! 

FERMILIAN. 

There's but four feet of space 
To spare between us. I'm not hasty, I ! 
Swans sing before their death, and it may be 
That dying poets feel that impulse too : 
Then, pry thee, be canorous. You may sing 
One of those ditties which have won you gold, 
And my meek audience of the vapid strain 
Shall count with Phoebus as a full discharge 
For all your ducats. Will you not begin ? 

HAVERILLO. 

Leave off this horrid jest, Firmilian ! 



FIRMILIAN. 109 



FIKMILIAN. 



Jest ! 'Tis no jest ! This pillar's very high — 
Shout, and no one can hear you from the square- 
Wilt sing, I say ? 

HAVERILLO. 

Listen, Firmilian ! 
I have a third edition in the press, 
Whereof the proceeds shall be wholly thine — 
Spare me ! 

FIRMILIAN". 

A third edition ! Atropos — 
Forgive me that I tarried ! 

HAVERILLO. 

Mercy ! — Ah ! — 
[Firmilian hwla him from the column. 



110 FIRMILIAN. 



SCENE X. 
Square helow the Pillar. 

Enter Apollodorus, a Critic. 

Wlij do men call me a presumptuous cur, 

A vaporing blockhead, and a turgid fool, 

A common nuisance, and a charlatan ? 

I've dashed into the sea of metaphor 

With as strong paddles as the sturdiest ship 

That churns Medusae into liquid light. 

And hashed at every object in my way. 

My ends are public. I have talked of men 

As my familiars, whom I never saw. 

Nay — more to raise my credit — I have penned 

Epistles to the great ones of the land. 

When some attack might make them slightly sore, 

Assuring them, in faith, it was not I. 



PIBMILIAN. Ill 

What was their answer ? Marrj, shortly this : 

'' Who, in the name of Zernebock, are you ?" 

I have reviewed myself incessantly — 

1 ea, made a contract with a kindred soul 

For mutual interchange of puffery. 

Gods — how we blew each other ! But, 'tis past — 

Those halcyon days are gone; and, I suspect, 

That, in some fit of loathing or disgust. 

As Samuel turned from EIi's coarser son. 

Mine ancient playmate hath deserted me. 

And yet I am Apollodorus still ! 

I searcb for genius, having it myself. 

With keen and earnest longings. I survive 

To disentangle, from the imping wings 

Of our young poets, their crustaceous slough. 

I watch them, as the watcher on the brook 

Sees the youno^ salmon wrestlino^ from its eofsr. 

And revels in its future bright career. 

Ha ! what seraphic melody is this ? 



112 FIRMILIAN. 

Enter Sancho, a Costennonger^ singing. 

Down in the garden behind the wall, 
Merrily grows the bright-green leek ; 

The old sow grunts as the acorns fall, 

The winds blow heavy, the little pigs squeak. 

One for the litter, and three for the teat — 

Hark to their music, Juanna my sweet ! 

APOLLODOEUS. 

Now, heaven be thanked ! here is a genuine bard, 

A creature of high impulse, one unsoiled 

By coarse conventionalities of rule. 

He labors not to sing, for his l)right thoughts 

Resolve themselves at once into a strain 

Without the aid of balanced artifice. 

All hail, great poet ! 

SANCHO. 

Save you, my merry master ! Need you any leeks 



FIRMILIAN. 113 

or onions ? Here's the primest cauliflower, though 
I say it, in all Baclajoz. Set it up at a distance of 
some ten yards, and I'll forfeit my ass if it does 
not look bigger than the Alcayde's wig. Or would 
these radishes suit your turn ? There's nothing 
like your radish for cooling the blood and purging 
distempered humors. 

APOLLODORUS. 

I do admire thy vegetables much. 

But will not buy them. Pray you, pardon me 

For one short word of friendly obloquy. 

Is't possible a being so endowed 

With music, song, and sun-aspiring thoughts, 

Can stoop to chaifer idly in the streets. 

And, for a huckster's miserable gain, 

Eenounce the urgings of his destiny ? 

Why, man, thine ass should be a Pegasus, 

A sun-reared charger snorting at the stars, 

And scattering all the Pleiads at his heels— 



114 FIKMILIAN. 

Thy cart should be an orient-tinted car, 
Such as Aurora drives into the day, 
What time the rosj^-fingered Hours awake — 
Thy reins — 

SANCHO. 

Lookye, master, I've dusted a better jacket than 
yours before now, so you had best keep a civil 
tongue in your head. Once for all, will you buy 
my radishes ? 

APOLLODORTJS. 

No! 

SANCH©. 

Then go to the devil and shake yourself ! 

^ \_Exit. 

APOLLODORUS. 

The foul fiend seize thee and thy cauliflowers 1 



FIRMILIAN. 115 

I was indeed a most egregious ass 

To take tliis lubber clodpole for a bard, 

And woi-sliip that dull fool. Pjtliian Apollo I 

Hear me — O hear ! Towai'ds the firmament . 

I gaze with longing eyes ; and, in the name 

Of millions thirsting for poetic draughts, 

I do beseech thee, send a poet down ! 

Let him descend, e'en as a meteor falls, 

Hushing at noonday — 

[He is crushed hy the fall of the 
hody of Haverillo. 



ilH FIBMILIAN. 



SCEJtvTE XL 

A Street. 

Enter two Gentlemen, meeting. 

rmST GENTLEMAN. 

Save you, brave Cavalier ! 

SECOND GENTLEMAN. 

The like to yoii, sir. 
I scarce need ask where you have been to-day - 
All Badajoz was at the market-place. 

FIRST GENTLEMAN. 

You mean the act of faith ? I was too late : 
Will you vouchsafe me some relation of it ? 

SECOND. GENTLEMAN. 



I've seen a larger, muster for the stake. 



FIB MI LI AN. 117 

But never was tlie jDiiblic interest 

Excited to so vehement a pitch. 

Men did not care for Jews or heretics, 

Though some of both descriptions were produced. 

The leading victim was the Graduate, 

Whose monstrous deed in blowing up the church, 

Whereby a thousand lives and more were lost, 

Stands yet unequalled for atrocity. 

Faith, sir ! the Inquisition had hard work 

To guard him from his dungeon to the pile. 

When he came forth, from twenty thousand throats 

There rose so horrid and so fierce a yell 

That I was fain to hold my tingling ears. 

Mothers, whose sons had perished in the church, 

Howled curses at him : old men shook their fists 

With palsied vehemence ; and there were some 

Who carried naked daggers in their hands, 

And would have hacked him piecemeal. 



118 FIRMILIAN. 

FmST GENTLEMAN. 

And no wonder — 
'Twas a most horrid and unnatural deed ; 
My young remembrance cannot parallel 
A fellow to it. 

SECOND GENTLEMAN. 

Yet was he quite calm : 
A little pale, perhaps, but noway moved 
By all their hooting. When he reached the pile, 
He craved permission of the Inquisitor, 
To say a word or two. That being granted. 
He turned him straightway to the raging crowd, 
Which, at his gesture, stilled itself awhile, 
And spoke in parables. 

FIRST GENTLEMAN. 

How mean you, sir ? 



Did he confess his guilt 



FTRMILIAN. 119 



SEOOND GENTLEMAN. 



In faith, not he ! 
His speech was worse than any conimination. 
He ciirs'd the city, and he curs'd the church ; 
He curs'd the houses, and he curs'd their stones. 
Lie cui'sed, in sliort, in such miraculous wise, 
Tliat nothing was exempted from his ban. 
Tlien, sir, indeed the people's wrath was roused. 
And a whole storm of cats came tumbling in, 
Combined with baser missiles. I was fain, 
Not wishing to be wholly singular. 
To add my contribution to the rest. 
Yet he cursed on, till the Familiars gagged him- 
Bound him unto the stake, and so he died. 

BIKST GENTLEMAN. 

You tell the story very pleasantly. 

Were there no more of note in the procession ? 



120 FTRMILIAJS. 

SECOND GENTLEMAN. 

TJiere was a fellow, too, an Anabaptist, 

Or something of the sort, from the Low Countries, 

Rejoicing in the name of Teufelsdrockh. 

I do not know for what particular sin 

He stood condemned ; but it was noised abroad 

That, in all ways he was a heretic. 

Six times the Inquisition held debate 

Upon his tenets, and vouchsafed him speech. 

Whereof he largely did avail himself. 

But they could coin no meaning from his words, 

Further than this, that he most earnestly 

Denounced all systems, huuian and divine. 

And so, because the weaker sort of men 

Are oft misled by babbling, as the bees 

Hive at the clash of cymbals, it was deemed 

A duty to remove him. He, too, spoke 

But never in your life, sir, did you hear 

Such hideous jargon I The distracting screech 



FIEMILIAN. 121 

Of wagon-wheel ungreased was music to it ; 
And as for meaning — wiser heads than mine 
Could find no trace of it. 'Twas a tirade 
About fire-horses, jotuns, windbags, owls, 
Choctaws and horse-hair, shams and flunkeyism, 
Unwisdoms, Tithes, and [Inveracities. 
'Faith, when I heard him railing in crank terms, 
And dislocating language in his howl 
At Phantasm Captains, Hair-and-leather Popes, 
Terrestrial Law-words, Lords, and Law-bringers. — 
I almost wished the Graduate back as^ain : 
His style of cursing had some flavor in't ; 
Tlie other's was most tedious. By-and-by, 
The crowd grew restive ; and no wonder, sir ; 
For the effect of his discom-se was such. 
That one poor wench miscarried in aflfright. 
I did not tarry longer. 

FIRST GENTLEMAN. 

Your narration 



122 FIR MI LI AN. 

Makes me regret less heartily tlie chance 

That kept me from the sliow. Is tliere naiiglit else 

Talked of in Baclajoz? 

SECOND GENTLEMAN. 

AVhj, yes, sir — much, 
And of strange import : l)ut the cautious lip 
Dares not, as yet, give utterance to its thought 
Ln the full measure. Death hath been amongst us, 
ISot striking at the old, but at the young. 
In most unusual fashion. Three young men, 
All in strong heaUh, untainted by disease, 
Died in a tavern. Marry, sir — 'tis thought 
Their cups were spiced. But a few days ago, 
Our most aspiring poet, Ilaverillo, 
Fell from St. Simeon's column — no one knows 
What took him to its top ; — another life, 
I hear, was lost in his abrupt descent. 
But no one could identify the corpse. 
Then there's a Priest amissing — these are things 



FIRMILIAN. 



123 



Portentous in t-hemselves, and very strange. 
Further, there's some sHght scandal noised abroad 
About the niece of an Inquisitor — 
I name no names — who may have been, perchance, 
Somewhat too credulous. 'Tis a strange world ! 
Are you acquainted with Firmilian s 

FIRST GENTLEMAN. 

But slightly, sir : I've held a bet or so 

With him upon the buU-iights. Why d'ye ask ? 

SECOND GENTLEMAN. 

Because (in confidence), I think 'twere wise 

To close your book with him. I heard it said. 

Not many days ago, that his old uncle. 

The Dean of Salamanca, had expired, 

And left him all his w^ealth. Heaven bless you, sir, 

^ have a turn for genealogy, 

And, by my reckoning, he is no more kin 

To the old Dean than to the Holy Pope ! 



1 24 F I R M I L I A N . 

I may be wrong, you l^now — but in such ma,tters 
'Tis prudent to be sure. There are reports, 
On whicli I sliall not dwell, which maJve me think 
Firiuilian is not safe. Yoa understand me ? 

FIRST GENTLEMAN. 

Your kindly hint hath found a ready way 
To a most anxious bosom ! Let us go 
Towards the Prado. I've a little tale 
To tell you of that same Firmilian. 

[Exeunt. 



FIKMILIAN. 



125 



SCENE XII . 

The Vaults of the Inquisition. 

The Inquisitors are seated on henches. Behind 
them Familiars hearing torches. 

Throughout this Scene, distant peals of thunder 
heard. 

CHIEF INQUISITOR. 

Would I could bid you welcome, brethren, here ! 
This wild derangement of the elements, 
These fiery gashes in the vault of heaven 
That stream with flame, and fright the astonied 

earth. 
Are not from natural causes: Hell is loose ; 
The Prince o' the Air hath called his legions up. 
And demons' wings are madly flashing by 
On hideous errantry ! There have been deeds 
Wrought here among us of so vile a sort — 



126 FIKMILIA.N. 

Such impious words have pierced the netherworld, 
That the fiends, starting from their sulphurous beds, 
Have answered to the summons ! 

OLD rNQUISITOR. 

Such a night 
There hath not been since that in Wittemberg, 
"When damned Faustus lost his wretched soii'l. 

CHIEF INQUISITOR. 

Yea, reverend brother, it was even so. 

And, much I fear me, some in Badajoz 

Have, by their practice of unholy arts, 

Sinned worse than Faustus. Stand thou forth, 

Balthazar ; 
And tell us what thou knowest. 

FIRST FAMILIAR. 

Most reverend sirs, 
I, and my fellow, Gil of Santillane, 



F I RM I L I A N . 127 

Both sworn Familiars of this Holy office, 
Keceived of late commission to inquire 
Touching the trade of a suspected Jew. 
His dealing was in philtres, amorous drug-5, 
Powders of mummy, amulets, and charms, 
All which we seized, and brought the caitiff here 
To be examined. When upon the rack. 
He, being urged by subtle questioning, 
Confessed that of ten-times he had procured 
Most strange material for a student's use — 
As skulls, thigh-bones, a murderer's wasted hand 
Hewn from the gibbet, and such other ware 
As sorcerers do employ. Besides these things. 
He owned that he had purchased from a Moor 
A curious work upon geometry. 
And sold it to Firmilian. 

CHIEF INQUISITOK. 

Can the stars 
Ketain their place within the firmament, 



128 FIRMILIAN. 

When wickedness like this is wrought below ? 
Proceed, Balthazar. 

FIRST FAMILIAR. 

Tliese particulars 
Being in their nature horrid and profane, 
Did Mordecai right cheerfully disclose. 
Yet we, remembering what the vulgate saitli, 
Touching the doubtful witness of a Jew 
Against a Christian, did esteem it fit 
To make more perquisition. For that end, 
I, and mj comrade, Gil of Santillane, 
Sought out Firmilian's servant. Him we found 
Within a wine-shop — 

OLD INQUISITOR. 

Mark that well, my masters ! 
For three score years and ten I've held my office 
And never did I know the sorcerer yet 



F I R MIL I A N . 129 

"Whose servant felt not a perpetual thirst. 
I praj you let that fact be noted down. 

CHIEF INQUISITOR. 

It shall be noted. Well — what followed next? 

FIRST FAMILIAR. 

Obedient to our orders, Gil and I, 

Albeit habitual shunners of the cup, 

Did somewhat deviate from our wonted rule, 

And made slight show of wassail. Whereupon, 

This Nicodemus, young Firmilian's knave, 

Did gradually to us some part disclose 

Of his employer's practice. 

SECOND FAMILIAR. 

Did he so ? 
A servant's tale is damning evidence 
Against his lord ! What said this ISTicodemus ? 
Stand down, Balthazar — Speak thou, Santillane. 



130 F I R M I L I A N . 

SECOND FAMILIAE. 

He toid ns this — that long ago, in Wales, 

His master had from one Plotinis learned 

Most wondrous secrets : that on Wednesday nights 

He was attended by an ugly imp. 

Whose outward apparition bore the stamp 

Of an enormous hedge-hog. 

OLD INQUISITOR 

I remember 
The like was said of Paracelsus too. 
And of Cornelius. I myself have seen 
A hedge-pig suckled by a Moorish witch. 
That must have been about the year sixteen, 
Or two years later. Is it taken down ? 
For three score years and ten I've held my office, 
And never knew a necromancer yet 
But dealt in hedge-hogs ! Is it taken down? 



FIRMILTAN. 



131 



CHIEF INQUISITOii. 

It is, my reverend brother. Santillane — 
On with your stor^^. 

SECOND FAMILIAH. 

Warily he talked 
Of magic circles, skulls, and fumigations — 
Of the great Devil, and his sulphurous stench—- 
Of phantom beavers, and of bottle imps ; 
The bare recital of which monstrous things 
Made each particular hair to stand on end, 
Like quills upon the fretful porcupine. 
I can depone no further. 

OLD INQUISITOR. 

Porcupines 
Are worse than hedge-hogs ! 



132 FIRMILIAN. 

CHEEF mQUISITOK. 

Is this Nicodemus 
Still safe within your reach ? 

FIRST FAMILIAR. 

Right holy sir, 
He is. We deemed it wiser to defer 
His capture till we knew your reverend pleasure, 
In case Firmilian might take sudden wiug. 
Moreover, I have something yet to tell. 
Which, if not touching sorcery, may lean 
To worse than heresy. 

CHIEF INQUISITOR. 

Thy care is great. 
Thou art our best Familiar ; and I think. 
E'en as thou speak'st, and lettest out the truth, 
The frightened fiends desert the upper sky 
And calm their thunder down. Say out thy say. 



FIRM ILI A N. 133 



FIRST FAMILIAR, 



I pray jour reverend worships to believe 

I act not as spy. 'Tis not for me 

To mark the twinkling of a lady's fan, 

To Inrk behind church pillars, or to note 

The course of fervid glances. Such things lie 

Beyond my office ; and I know full well 

That they are oftentimes assumed to hide 

Most faithful service to our Holy Church ; 

And, therefore, 1 repeat, I am no spy. 

CHIEF INQUISITOR. 

I have still found thee — as the Church hath done- 
Discreet within thy function. Didst thou know 
Aught that might appertain to one of us, 
Or to the honor of our nearest kin, 
I do believe that thou wouldst rather dare 
Expose thyself upon the stretching rack 
Than speak out openly. 



134 F I R M I L I A N . 

SEVERAL INQriSITORS. 

We do believe it I 

FIRST FAMILIAR. 

Therein you understand ice thoroughly. 
I am the poor Familiar of this House, 
And for the movements of such holy sirs, 
And of their households, have no eyes at all, 
Save at their pleasure. But Firmilian's case 
Demands a full divulgement. 

OLD INQUISITOR. 

Yery right ! 
I gather from this talk there's something wrong 
About Firmilian's morals. I have been 
For three score years and ten Inquisitor: 
And always have observed that heretics 
Are faulty in their morals. Tell us all- 



FIRMILIAN. io. 

FIRST FAMILIAR. 

Three weeks ago — 'twas but a week befoi-e 

The death of the three students — there appeared 

Within a lonely cottage in the wood, 

Hard bordering on the skirts of Badajoz, 

An Indian maiden. She was dark as night, 

And yet not unalluring, as I heard 

From Santillane, my comrade — 

SECOND FAMILIAR. 

Holy sirs, 
I swear such laJiguage ne'er escaped my lips ! 
I only said that in a heathen's eye 
She might find favor. 

OLD INQUISITOR. 

Doubtless so she would. 
I do remember, fifty years ago, 
A very comely damsel of that kind, 



136 FIRM I LI AN. 

Purveyed, I think, from inner Africa — 
I never saw a more voluptuous shape. 
But to your story — 

FIRST FAMILIAR. 

Every day since then 
Hath young Firmilian stolen to her bower 
With utmost secresy. What passeth there 
I know not. But men say she sings by night 
Mysterious ditties in an unknown tongue, 
Of such unnatural' and thrilling sort, 
That the scared nightingales desert their boughs. 
And evil birds of omen flit around 
To list the Indian's music. 

CHIEF INQUISITOR 

Is it so ? 
That shall be also looked to heedfully. 
The fiend hath many snares, and it may be 
That, in the likeness of a dusky queen, 



FIRMILIAN. 



137 



He sends an agent hither. What I know 
Of this Firmilian makes me fear the worst : 
Yet it were wise to wait. I'll set a trap 
Shall lure him to his ruin. Go we hence ; 
And in the innor casket of our hearts 
Be all our secrets locked. Put out the lights ! 
\The torches are extinguished. 



138 FIRMILIAN. 



SCENE XIII. 
Among the Mountaitta, 

Enter Firmilian. 

Why slionld I strive to comprehend the charm 

Of savage nature, or to fill my mind 

With thoughts of desolation, meanly filched 

From those rude rocks, and chasms, and cataracts ? 

Why, none but fools afi'ect to seek them now 

For the mere sense of grandeur. To a painter, 

Yon crag might seem magnificent indeed. 

With its bold outline. A geologist 

Would but regard it as a pillar left 

To mark some age that was pre-Adamite, 

And, with his hammer, excavate the bones 

Of brutes that revelled in the oozy slime, 

Ere yet a bud had burst in Eden's bower. 



P I R M I L I A N . 139 

Here is a terrace on the mountain side, 

As stately as the ever-watched approach 

Unto the palace of the greatest king. 

Your man of science cares not for its sweep, 

Nor anght around that might attract the eye ; — 

He calls it a sea-margin, and exhumes 

The withered fragment of a cockle-shell, 

In 2:*i'Oof of his averment, with more pride 

Than if he stumbled on a costly gem. 

O, there is room for infinite debate 

In a stray boulder ; and tlie jagged streak 

Upon the surface of a harmless stone. 

May be the Helen to some future host 

Of glacier-theorists ! 

Sucli men are wise. 
Tliey overlook the outward face of things ; 
Seek no sensation from the rude design 
Of outward beauty ; but fulfil their task 
Like moles, who loathe the gust of upper air, 
And burrow underneath ! 



140 F I R M I L I A N . 

Three days have 1 
Been wandering in this desert wilderness 
In search of inspiration. Horrid thoughts, 
Phantasms, chimseras, tortures, inward spasms, 
Disordered spawn of dreams, distracting visions, 
Air-s'hrieks and haunting terrors were my aim — 
Yet nothing comes to friglit me ! How is this ? 
Grant that my former efforts were in vain ; 
At least the death of yon poor Haverillo 
Might be a mill-stone tied around my neck, 
And sink me to despair ! It is not so. 
I rather feel triumphant in the deed. 
And draw fresh courage from the thought of it. 
Were all my creditors disposed like him, 
Methinks the sunshine would be warmer still ! 
Hold — Let me reckon closely with myself ! 
Could my weak hand put back the clock of time 
To the same point whereon its index lay 
When first tlie thought of murder crossed my soul- 
Gould I undo, even by a single word, 



F I R M I L I A N . 143 

All my past actings, and recall to life 

Tlie three companions of my earlier years — 

The nameless crowd that perished in the church — 

The guileless poetaster — and the rest 

Who indirectly owe their deaths to me — 

Would I exert the power ? Most sm*ely not. 

Above the pool that lies before my foot 

A thousand gnats are liovering — an hour hence 

They'll drop hito the mud ! Should I lament 

That things so sportive, and so full of glee, 

So soon must pass away? In faith, not I ! 

They all will perish ere the sun goes down, 

And yet to-morrow night that self-same pool 

Will swarm with thousands more. What's done, is 

I'll look on it no further. [done. 

But my work — 
That grand conception of my intellect. 
Whereby I thought to take the world by storm- 
That firstling of my soul— my tragedy— 
What shall become of it ? 



142 F I R M I L I A N . 

Alas ! I fear 
I have mista'en my bent ! What's Cain to me, 
Or I to Cain ? I cannot realize 
His wild sensations — it were madness, then, 
For me to persevere. Some other bard 
With weaker nerves and fainter heart than mine 
Must gird him to the task. Tis not for me 
To shrine that page of history in song, 
And utter such tremendous cadences, 
That the mere babe who hears them at tlie breast 
Sans comprehension, or the power of thought. 
Shall be an idiot to its dying hour ! 
I deemed my verse would make pale Hecate's orb 
Grow wan and dark ; and into ashes change 
The radiant star-dust of the milky-way. 
I deemed that pestilence, disease, and death, 
Would follow every strophe — for the power 
Of a true poet, prophet as he is, 
Should rack creation ! 

Get thee gone, my dream - 



F I R M 1 I. I A N . 143 

My long-siistainino; friend of many clays ! 
Henceforth my brain shall be divorced from thee, 
JSlor keep more memory of the wanton past 
Than one wlio makes a harem of his mind, 
And dallies with his thoughts like concubines ! 

Yet something must be done. 'Twere vile for me 
To sink into inaction, or remain 
Like a great harp wherein the music lies 
Unwakened by the hand. What if I chose 
A theme of magic ? That might take the ear, 
For men who scarce have eyesight to discern 
What daily passes underneath their nose, 
Still peer about for the invisible. 
'Twere easy now to weave a subtile tale 
Of ghosts and gobhns, mermaids, succubi, 
Mooncalves and monsters — of enchanted lialls, 
Wide-waving tapestry, haunted corridors — 
Of clinrchyards shadowed by mysterious yews. 
Wherein white women walk and wring their hands— 
Of awful caverns underneath the sea. 



144: F I R M I L I A N . 

Lit by the gliinnier of a demon's eyes — 

Of skeletons in armor, phantom knights 

Who ride in fairy rings — and so revive 

The faded memories of our childish years 

With richer color. Bah ! — the time is })ast 

When such-like tales found audience. Children now 

Are greatly wiser than their fathers were, 

And prattle science in the nursery. 

Raw-head-and-bloody-bones no longer scares 

The inmate of the cradle into rest ; 

And that tremendous spectre of the North, 

The chimney-haunting Boo-man comes no more, 

With hideous answer, to the nurse's call. 

Yet something do I know of magic too, 

And might have further sounded in its deep, 

But for the terror that o'ermastered me 

In my first essay. Scarcely had I read 

Ten lines of incantation, when a light, 

Lii^e that of glow-worms j^astured upon graves, 

Glared from the sockets of a fleshless skull, 



i I 



F I K M I L I A N . 145 

Aiid <iiitic shapes ran howling round the ring, 
And scared me to distraction. With the fiend 
I'll have no further traffic ; for I dread 
Both him, and that which is opposed to him. 
The ruthless Inquisition. I'll no more 
Of magic or its spells ! 

What other theme 
Lies ready to my hand ? what impulse stirs 
My being to its depths, and conjures up 
(As the young nymphs from sacred fountaine rose, 
The best and fairest shapes of poetry ? 
Why — love, love, love ! — the master of the world— 
The blind impetuous boy, whose tiny dart 
Is surer than the Parthian javelin — 
Love, whose strong best all living things obey — 
J^ove, the lord-paramount and j)rince of all 
The heroes of the w^hirling universe. 
Was it not love that vanquished Hercules, 
What time he writhed in Dejanira's gow^n ? 

Was it not love that set old Troy on flame, 

7 



146 F I K M I L I AN. 

Withdrew Achilles from the Grecian camp, 
And kept Ulysses bound in Circe's bower '« 
Was it not love that held great Samson lirin 
Whilst coy Delilah sheared his lusty locks, 
A.nd gave him powerless to the Philistine'^ 
Was it not love that made Mark Antony 
yield up his kingdoms for one fervid kiss 
From Egypt's ripest Queen? What better theme 
Could be proposed than this ? A graduate I, 

nd an expert one too, in Cupid's lore — 
What hinders me to raise a richer song 
Than ever yet was heard in praise of love ? 
Let the cold moralists say what they will, 
I'll set their practice boldly 'gainst my verse, 
And so convict them of hypocrisy. 
What text-books read their children at the schools ^ 
Derive they Latin from a hymnal source, 
Or from the works of rigid anchorites? 
Not so ! That hog of Epicurus' stye. 
The sensuous Horace, ushers them along 



FIEMTLIAN. 147 

To rancid Ovid. He prepares the way 
For loose Catullus, whose voluptuous strain 
Is soon dismissed for coarser Juvenal. 
Take we the other language — Is there much 
Of moral fervor or devout respect 
That can be gleaned from old Anacreon's lays, 
Or Sappho's burning starts? What pious lore 
(^an the alembic of the sage extract 
From the rank filth of Aristophanes ? 
Is Lucian holy reading? And, if not, 
Why, in the name of the old garden-god, 
Persist they in their system ? Pure indeed 
Must be the minds of those compelled to wade 
Through all the dunghills of antiquity. 
If they escape without some lasting stain. 
What do our moralists? To make things clear 
Which otherwise might 'scape the youthful sense, 
They write Pantheons — wherein you may read, 
In most exact and undisguised detail. 
The loves of Jove with all his relatives. 



148 F I R M I L I A N . 

Besides some less conspicuous amours 

With Danae, Europa, and the like. 

What merrier jests can move the schoolboy's spleen, 

Tlian the rich tale of Vulcan and of Mars ; 

Or of Apollo, when, in hot pursuit 

Of Daphne, 'stead of tresses in his hand. 

He found a garland of the laurel leaves ? 

Well-thumbed, be sure, the precious pages are 

That tell of Venus and of Mercury ! 

And shall the men, who do not shrink to teach 

Such saving doctrine to their tender sons, 

Accuse me if I shrine the same in verse, 

And with most sweet seductive harmony, 

Proclaim the reign of Love o'er all the world ? 

Henceforward then, avaunt, ye direful thoughts 
Tliat have oppressed the caverns of my brain ! 
I am discharged from guilt, and free from blood 
Which was but shed through misconceived desire! 
How glorious is the lightness of the soul 
That gleams within me now ! I am like one 



F I 3i M I L I A N . 149 

\Yho, after hours of horrid darkuess passed 
A¥ithiii the umbrage of a thunder cloud, 
Beholds once more the liquid light of day 
Streaming above him, when the splendid sun 
Calls up the vapors to liis own domain, 
And the great heap moves slowly down the vale. 
Muttering, in anger, for its victim lost ! 
■ Now could I roll, as gaily as a child. 
On the fresh carpet of the unsown flowers — 
Now could I raise my voice in innocent glee, 
And shout from cataract unto cataract — 
But that a single thought disturbs me yet ; 
My vow to Mariana — Will she bear 
That frank communion which I must achieve 
Ere yet my song is perfect? She is proud, 
And somewhat overbearing in her walk. 
Yet there's no woman past tlie power to tame. 
A Count of Stolberg once, — a wedded man, 
Whose restless disposition drove him on 
To wear the cross, and fight in Palestine — 



150 F I K M I L I A N . 

Was taken captive by an Emir there, 

And 'scaped from prison solely by the aid 

Of the one daughter of his enemy. 

Tis said that, when he brought the damsel home, 

The Christian matron no remonstrance made, 

But took her, like a sister, to her heart. 

And the blest three lived on in unison. 

Why should I not revive the earlier days ? 

Why should the stately Mariana look 

More coldly upon Lilian, or that flower 

That I have gathered from the Afric plains, 

Than Rachel on her handmaid ? I can quote 

Sufficient texts to still her first harangue. 

If she be angry. Will she so endure? 

Kind Cupid, aid ! In this, I must be sure ! 

[Fxit 



FIRMILIAN. 151 



SCEISTE XIY. 
A Garden. — Firmilian. Mariana. 



FlRMILIAN. 



My Mariana 



MARIANA. 

O my beautiful! 
My seraph love — my panther of the wild — 
My moon-eyed leopard — my vohiptuous lord ! 
O, I am sunk within a sea of bliss, 
And find no soundings ! 

Firmilian. 

Shall I answer back ? 
As the great Earth lies silent all the night, 
And looks with hungry longing on the stars, 



152 FIRMILIAN. 

Whilst its huge heart beats on its granite ribs 
With measured pulsings of delirious joy — 
So look I, Mariana, on thine eves ! 

MARIANA. 

Ah, dearest, wherefore are we fashioned thus? 
I cannot always hang around thy neck 
And plant vermilion kisses on thy brow ; 
I cannot clasp thee, as yon ivy bush — 
Too happy ivy ! — holds, from year to year, 
The stalwart oak within her firm embrace. 
Mixing her tresses fondly up with his. 
Like some young Jewish maid with Absalom's 
Nay, hold, Firmilian ! do not j^luck that rose ! 

FIE3IILIAN. 

Vriiy not? it is a fair one. 



MARIANA. 



Are fair things 



F I R M I L T A N . 153 

Made only to be plucked ? O fie on thee ! 
I did not think my lord a libertine ! 

FIRMILIAN. 

Yet, sweetest, with your leave I'll take the rose, 
For there's a moral in it. — Look you here. 
'Tis fair, and sweet, and in its clustered leaves 
It carries balmy dew: a precious flower. 
And vermeil-tinctured, as are Hebe's lip<. 
Yet say, my Mariana, could you bear 
To gaze for ever only upon this. 
And fling the rest of Flora's casket by ? 

MARIANA. 

No, truly — I would bind it up with more, 
And make a fitting posy for my breast. 
If I were stinted in my general choice, 
I'd crop the lily, tender, fresh, and white, — 
The shrinking pretty lily— and would give 
Its modest conv^rast to the gaudier rose. 



154 FIRMILIAN. 

What next ? some flower that does not love the day, 
The dark, full-scented night-stock well might serve 
To join the other two. 

FIRMILIAN. 

A sweet selection ! 
Think'st thou they'd bloom together on one breast 
With a united fragrance ? 

MARIANA. 

Wherefore not? 
It is by union that all things are sweet. 

FIRMILIAN. 

Thou speakest well ! I joy, my Mariana, 

To find thy spirit overleaps the pale 

Of this mean world's injurious narrowness ! 

Never did Socrates proclaim a truth 

More beautiful than welled from out thy lips— 

" It is by union that all tilings are sweet." 



FIRMILIAN. 155 

Thou, darling, art my rose — my dewy rose — 
The which I'll proudly wear, but not alone. 
Dost comprehend me ? 

MARIANA. 

Ha ! Firmilian— 
U.o\v my eyes dazzle ! 

FIRMILIAN. 

Let me show you now 
The lily I have ta'en to bmd with thee. 

\_IIe bnngs Iai^x's from the Surrtrner-house 

MARIANA. 

Is this a jest, Firmilian ? 

FIRMILIAN. 

Could I jest 
With aught so fair and delicate as this ? 
Nay, come — no coyness I Both of you embrace 



156 FIRMILIAN. 

Then to my heart of hearts — 



MAKIANA. 

Soft you a momerit ! 
Methinks the posy is not yet complete. 
Say, for the sake of argument, I share 
My rights with this pale beauty — (for she's pretty ; 
Although so fragile and so frail a thing, 
That a mere puff of April wind would mar her) — 
Where is the night-stock? 

FiRMiLiAN brings Indiana from the tool house 

Here ! 

MARIANA. 

A filthy negress ! 
Abominable ! 

LILIAN. 

Mercy on me! what blubber lips she has! 



FI R M I L I A N . 157 

MARIANA, furiously to FIRMILIAN. 

You nastj^ thing ! Is this your poetry — 

Your high soul-scheiniiig and philosophy? 

I hate and loathe you ! {To Indiana.) — Eival of 

my shoe, 
Go, get thee gone, and hide thee from the day 
That loathes thine ebon skin! Firmilian — 
You'll hear of this ! My brother serves the king. 

LILIAN. 

My uncle is the chief Inquisitor, 

And he shall know of this ere curfew tolls ! 

What ! Shall I share a husband with a coal 'i 

MARIANA. 

Eight, girl ! I love thee even for that word — 
The Inquisition makes most rapid w^ork, 
And, in its books that caitiff's name is down I 



158 FIKMILIAN. 

FIRMILIAN. 

Listen one moment ! When I was a babe, 
And in my cradle puling for my nurse, 
There fell a gleam of glory on the floor, 
And in it, darkly standings was a form — 

MARIANA. 

A negress, probably ! Farewell awhile — 
When next we meet — the faggot and the pile ! 
Come, Lilian ! 

[Exeunt 

INDIANA. 

I shake from head to foot with sore affright — 
What will become of me ? 

FIEMILIAN. 

Who cares ? Good night ! 
[Scene closes. 



FIRM I LI AN. 16'J 



SCEKE XY. 
A Barren Moor. — Niglit — Mist and fog. 

Enter Firmilian. 

Tliey're hot upon my traces ! Throngli the mist 
[ heard their call and answer — and but now, 
A.S I was crouching 'neath a haw^thorn bush, 
A dark Familiar swiftly glided by, 
His keen eyes glittering with the lust of death, 
[f I am ta'en, the faggot and the pile 
Await me ! Horror ! Kather would I dare, 
Like rash Empedocles, the Etna gulf, . 
Than writhe before the slaves of bigotry. 
Where am I ? If my mind deceives me not. 
Upon that common where, two years ago. 
An old blind beggar came and craved an alms, 
Thereby destroying a stupendous thought 



160 F I E M I L 1 A N . 

Just bursting in my mind — a glorious bud 
Of poesy, but blasted ere its bloom ! 
I bade the old fool take the leftward path, 
Which leads to the deep quarry, where he fell- 
At least I deem so, for I heard a splash — 
But I was gazing on the gibbous moon, 
And durst not lower my celestial flight 
To care for such an insect-worm as he ! 

How cold it is ! The mist conies thicker on 
Ha ! — what is that ? I see around me lights 
Dancing and flitting, yet they do not seem 
Like torches either — and there's music too! 
I'll pause and listen. 

Chorus of Ignes Fatui. 

Follow, follow, follow ! 
Over hill and over hollow ; 
It is ours to lead the way, 
When a sinner's footsteps stray— 
( vheering him with light and song, 



FIEMILIAN. 



161 



On his doubtful path along. 

Hark hark ! The watch-dogs bark. 
There's a crash, and a splash, and a blind man's cry 
But the Poet looks tranquilly up at the sky ! 

FIRMILIAN. 

Is it the echo of an inwaiMl voice, 
Or spirit-words that make my flesh to creep, 
And send the cold blood choking to my heart ? 
I'll shift my ground a little — 

Chorus of Ignes Fatui. 
Flicker, flicker, flicker 1 
Quicker still, and quicker. 
Four young men sate down to dine, 
And still they passed the rosy wine ; 
Pure was the cask, but in the flask 
'Lii«i« lay a certain deadly powder— 
[la ! his heart is beating louder I 
Ere the day had passed away, 



162 F I E M I L I A N . 

Garcia Perez lifeless lay ! 
Hark ! his mother wails Alphonzo, 
Never more shall strong Aionzo 
Drink the wine of Ildefonso. 

FIRMILIAN. 

O horror ! horror ! 'twas by me they died : 
I'll move yet farther on — 

Chorus of Ignes Fatui. 

In the vaults under 
Bursts the red thunder , 
Up goes the cathedral, 
Priest, people, and bedral ! 
Ho! ho! ho! ho! 

FIRMILIAN. 

My brain is whirling like a potter's wheol ^ 
O Nemesis 



FI RM I LI A N. 163 

Choims of Ignes Fatui. 

The muses sing in their charmed ring, 
And Apollo weeps for him who sleeps, 
» Alas ! on a hard and a stony pillow — 
Haveiillo! Haverillo ! 

FIRMILIAN. 

r shnll go mad ! 

Chorus of Igites Fatui. 

Give him some respite- — give him some praise — 
One good deed he lias done in his days ; 
Channt it, and smg it, and tell it in chorus — 
He has flattened the cockscomb of Apollodorus ! 

FIRIMILIAN. 

Small comfort that ! The death of a shard-beetle 
Albeit the poorest and the paltriest thing 
That craw Is round refuse, cannot weigh a gram 



184 



F r R M I L I A N . 



Against the ponderous avalanche of guilt 
riiat hc\ngs above me! O me miserable I 
I'll grope my way yet further. 

Chorus of Ignes Fatut. 

Firmilian ! Firmilian ! 

What have you done to Lilian ? 
There's a cry from the grotto, a sob by the stream, 
A woman's loud wailing, a little babe's scream ! 
- How fared it with Lilian, 

In the pavilion, 

Firmilian, Firmilian ? 

FIRMILIAN. 

Horror I I'm lost ! — 

Chorals of Ignus Fatui. 

Ho ! ho ! ho ! 
Deep in the snow 
Lies a black maiden from Africa's shore ! 



PIKMII, IAN. 105 

Hasten and shake her — 
yon nev^er shall wake lier — 
She'll roam throngli the glens of the A this no more ! 
Stay, stay, stay ! 
This way — this way — 
There's a pit before, and a pit behind, 
And the seeing man walks in the path of the blind ! 
iFmuiu AN falls irdo the quarry. The Ig nes 
K'atui dance as the curtain descerids. 



1 II K END 



LAYS 

OF THE 

SCOTTISH CAVALIERS. 

BY 

WILLIAM E. AYTOUN, 

Professor of Literature and Belles-Lettres in the University 
of Ediuburgli, and Editor of Blackwood's Magazine. A new 
edition, on line laid tinted paper, handsomely bound. 16mo, 
cloth extra, $1 50 ; half calf/ ^3. 

"J^ince Lockhfirt and Macanlay's ballads, we ha^e had no metrical 
work to be c nnpared in spirit, vi^or, and rhvthm witii this. These 
bailads em sorly and embalm the chiet historical iucidents of Sconi-h 
l)istf)ry— literally 1n 'thoughts thar, breahe and words that burn.' 
'1 hnv are fall of lyric energ}', graphic description, and genuine feel- 
ing."— i/ome Journal. 

'•The fine ball.'id of 'Montr^'se' in this collection is alone worth the 
price of the hjo^.''— Boston Transa'ipt. 



THE BOOK OF BALLADS 

(IXOLUDI^a FIRMILIAiT). 

EY 

Bon Gaultier (W. E. Aytoun and Theodore Martin). 
IGmo, cloth extra, ^1 50; half calf, $3. 

"A book for everybody who loves classic I'lin. Btllad*^ of all sorts, 
each a capital ijarody npon the sfyle of i-ome one of the best lyrio wri- 
tH-s of t;ie time. Th"'^ author is one of the first scholars and most fin- 
ished writers of the day, and this production is but the frolic of his 
geiiiu-' in play-time." 

"Th-? Spinish BaVads are models of polished versification and 
ppirited narrative, while the mock dr.<ima of Firmiliair is an exquisite 
specimen of refined burlesque. Many admirers on this side of the 
Atlantic will gladly welcome the volume." 



For sale at principal Bookstores, and mailed by Publisher 
on receipt of price. 

W. J. WIDDLETOK, Publisher, 
NEW YORK. 



THE 

INGOLDSBY LEGENDS; 

on, MIRTH A^^D MARVELS. 

BY THE 

^.ev. mCHJirRD HA^ms (BA^HAM 

(Thomas Ingoldsby). • 

"With 16 Illustrations by Leech and Cruikshank, and a 
memoir of the author, 

A handsome Library Edition, in two volumes crown 8vo, 
on toned papor, (;loth, $3 50 ; half calf; §7. 



ALSO, 

A GLOBE EDITIOX, COMPLETE IN OXE VOLUME. 
16mo. Cloth, |2 25 ; half calf, ^4. 



"Versified legends, markerl hy quaint hirnir, satirical lower, and 
curiously ingenious lnanagemen^ of rh\ thm and rhyme. The il ustra- 
tions are from designs by two of ihe greatest nlasters of caricature 
England has produced. The legends have secured a permanent place 
la literature, and have served as models f r many recent productions." 

"These inimitable volumes of rollicking fun must remain standard 
voiks as lung as there is any appreciation of mirtti. The English 
edition has reached a sale of 5^,000 copies, and a recent illustrated 
edition, not complete, was subscribed lor to the extent of 10,000 copies 
before publication." 



For sale at principal Bookstores throughout the country, 
and mailed by Publisher, on receipt of price. 

W. J. WIT3DLET0N, Publisher, 
NEW YORK. 



" \8 a writer of vers de ^odele, he is pronounced tn be without an 
oqtiil among English awthov^."'— Syracuse Daily Journal. 



WiNTIIROP MaCKWOI^TII PRAED. 



A new and thoroughly revised edition, with many Poems, 
not before published. 

A memoir by the Rev. Derwent Coleridge, and a steel 
portrait from miniature by Stuart jSTewton. 

Two elegant volumes orown 8vo, toned paper, cloth, $3 50 ; 
half calf, ^7 ; also, in two vols., blue and gold, $2 50. 



'' Florace is not m)r-e charming in his gayest moods than Praed." — 
Chrisiian Examiner. 

'• Wherever there shall be found a mind which appreciates the 
beauty of graceful thoughts and kindly sentiments, expressed in flow 
ing lines and rael dious cadences, there will be found an admirer of 
the poetry of Winthrop Mackworth Praed."— iVbr/'/i AmeHcan Review. 

" Remarkable for their ea-^y fl )w, happy verba! conceits, and rich 
humor alternating with occasi >nU touches of patho«. Pr;ied has 
always been a favorite with American readers, and this collection of 
his poems will doubtless be very acceptable in this c untry. whe"e 
Praed's wit and tenderness an highly appreciated."— iV<??/> York 
Eve'.ing Post. 



For sale at principal Bookstores throughout the countiy 
and mailed by Publisher on receipt of price. 

W. J. WIDDLETON, Publisher, 
NEW YORK. 



CONINGTON'S ^NEID. 



THE 

^NEID OF VIRGIL. 

Translated into English Terse (Scott's Ballad Metre). By 
JonN CoNiNGTON, M.A., late Professor in the University of 
Oxford. An elegant library edition, in large, clear type, on 
toned paper. One volume crown 8vo, cloth, $2 25; half 
calf, $4. 



" This version is unique in its metre, tliat of Scott's ballads being 
employed, wliich imparts a wotiderful life and vivacity, and will intro- 
duce the work to a class of readers by whom it has been heretofore 
ovcrlookea. The London Examiner characterizes it as '-the very 
lightest, freshest, and yet most accurate metrical translation of Virgil 
th it has been added to our literature " ; the Alheii(zum says that *' bc;- 
sidcs being a faithful copy of the original, it has all the fieshuess, 
life, and beauty of genuine poetry"; the Saturday Review^ "that 
among the many good translations, there has been none more true to 
the spirit and the letter of the original author than this"; and the 
Westminfiter Revieiv styles it '•eminently graceful and scholarlike." 

"After such commendations from such sonrce^;, little more need be 
said. The mechanical execution is very rich and attractive, and 
reflects credit on the house that publishes M.^'—New York Evenmg 
Post. 



For sale at the principal Bookstores throughout the country, 
and mailed by Publisher on receipt of price. 

W. J. WIDDLETON, Publisher, 

:t^EW YORK. 



Deacidified using the Bookkeeper process 
Treatment Date: April 2009 

PreservationTechnoloQies 

A WORLD LEACERIN COLLECTIONS pII/seS 

111 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



